My early years in Zionsville found me in frequent and funny situations with the Zionsville Police Department. I met them early and often upon moving to the Village. My first encounter was something a TV sitcom might create.
I hadn’t lived in my little place on Sycamore Street a week when the kids and I went shopping for the usual move-in paraphernalia – curtains, towels, etc. When we got back it was dark, really dark.
We were standing on the porch together. I was fumbling with my key chain, looking for my house key when it dawned on me: I don’t have a house key. I never got one. We’d never had this problem because we’d never locked the house before. Now what?
Son “Sparkplug” (I only call him that in print) decided we “had to do what we had to do.” So, we’d go in through the window. His sister and I hoisted him up, and he was in the act of trying to open a window from the outside when the light came on.
When I say light, I mean light. As in big, bright spotlight, the kind police have on their cruisers. The kind of lights you see lighting up prison yards in the movies.
There we were, the three of us, blinded by the light, breaking and entering… The cop wanted an explanation. I told him my dilemma, how I was new in town and had just bought the house and didn’t have a key.
“You lost your key already?” he asked.
“No,” I explained. “I never got one.”
“You bought a house,” he said, “and never got a key?” He made it clear I was looking real blonde here.
Then I remembered the seller lived in town with her new husband at his house. The cop followed us there and waited outside in his patrol car (God bless him, he was going to see this through.)
As I rang the doorbell, I was starting to get miffed. “What kind of a woman is it,” I said to myself, “who sells person a house and doesn’t give her the key?”
I was all ready for a big confrontation when it hit me: “What kind of a woman is it who buys a house and doesn’t ask for a key?”
It’s a good thing we found each other. ZPD agreed.