The Door

This was in connection with another paper that I was asked to write about my door. The emphasis was on descriptive vocabluary, to see how vivid a picture we could paint. I normally don't write like this, because it almost gives one a headache to digest a great deal of detail, but I think this is a fair balance. I hope you enjoy :)

Thresholds of Life and Opportunity

Life is about choices. Choices made on the thresholds of opportunity. And something I do every day is symbolic of that relationship I have with life in general. My life is filled with doors opening and closing, but there is one that is very special to me. My front door is the portal to opportunity and a recorded cassette of memory. It has raised me, among other things, and I have grown to know it very well. Its voice, its face, its past, and I know it so well, I can almost tell you its future. The two of us have grown and developed together, and I wish to share some of what my door means to me.

To illustrate the significance of my door to me, the Doors of Ireland seem to be a sufficient parallel. Many find it odd that the doors in Ireland are so many different colors, though there is somewhat an urban legend about it. The story goes that as the Irishmen, after a hard day’s work, would go to the public houses and drown their worries and stress in a grand ol’ pint. Many would have one too many, either out of a great many stresses or the revelry in association with it, but in any case, these drunken men would find it very difficult to find their own door, if they all looked the same, and the result would be waking up in the wrong woman’s bed. To avoid that, their wives painted their doors different colors, to identify them. Great story, though it's not completely reflective of my door. I may be an Irishman, but I have never drank. Instead , to me the Doors of Ireland identify the homes and families of those that are lost, and in connection, so does my door signify the same thing. It is a beacon, with its deep burnt red face, and multiple nicks from bags and bags of Costco and Sam’s Club groceries, enough to feed an army. The brass handle still gleams in the morning sun, and firm though it may be, its nose has become loose and free, threatening to lose itself, but ever persevering to serve my family for another year.

Characteristic of a door well used is the giant magnet, used by my mother to hang all sorts of wreaths and seasonal decorations to signify the coming and sometimes going of yet another age. The aged wood chips away with each chill and warm of the year, and as it grows and shrinks, it loses a bit of itself, almost as we do when we grow. A chip of our face is lost with age, and a wrinkle is all that remains. The only gripes I have about it are the decorated side windows, employed only to give my door class, and serves no other purpose. The angled glass and frosted decorations make it terribly difficult to perform surveillance work when mom and dad are on their way home. Rarely does it ever catch any sunlight to cast rainbows on the wall, seeing as how our home faces north and south, but the limited amount of light it does permit illuminates the foyer enough to create a natural glow about everything. How wonderful it is to keep one’s reality in check, to find that even such a substantial symbol of our lives isn’t perfect either.

Woven in the door's metal fabric are the memoires of years past, both cold ones of long winters and warm ones of humid summers. Snow, maple leaves, and grass clippings live and breathe within the inner workings of my door, creating a unique taste to the air. It changes with the seasons, but there always seems to be a piece of each season that still remains. In winter, the stark metal gives off a smell of sterile honesty. The combination of melting salt and the crisp, frozen air, gives the door a lifeless and almost unwelcoming odor. In spring, it becomes more inviting. Cold wet grass leaves its impression, and it gives it a clean, earthy brown smell, as if it foreshadows the sowing of seeds and reparation of my yard after a long winter. Summer gives my door almost a harsh, open smell of suffering vegetation, almost like the tree leaves are melting, but not burning. To counteract that, one can also pull from my door the distinct and purely American flavor of charcoal and Sweet Baby Rays barbeque sauce, as the many hundreds in my neighborhood have little porch gatherings, celebrating the warm weather for a short time. Lastly, autumn has my most favorite smell of all. With the air quickly getting colder, trapping the savory and wholesome smells of summer, it adds the homey aroma of wood smoke and burning leaves. It's an ever changing smell, and my door seems to adopt a different personality or style with each new day.

Unique to my door are the sounds that are emitted from it. Contrary to popular belief, my door is not silent, deaf, or lifeless. It is not merely a composition of wood and metal, whose sole purpose is to be a source of protection from the elements. It is a source of security, of course, but it is also a reminder of the comings and goings of a happy healthy family. Each time it opens, you hear this great sucking noise, as if a very slimy cork is forcefully removed from a bottle. It also screams its presence, but almost in a singsong kind of way, like a macabre musical with a horrific, high, soprano descant. The only difference is it’s not unsettling in the least bit, in fact, it adds to the feeling of security, knowing that if any intruder comes to invade our private security, we would know in an instant. It takes a bit more of a trained ear to hear the distant memories of times past hidden within the framework of the door. The shouts of excitement from crazy kids shooting burp guns at each other, the shrill barks of a protective border collie, the roaring laughter over a great movie, and the calm collected serenity of one reading a book all combine to create a unique and particular symphony of younger days. As I run my fingers over the framework, I can almost feel the threshold breathe with the house. It’s a steady movement, like an aged and wise animal, standing guard. My door is as smooth as ancient metal can be, and regardless of the warm security of the general atmosphere, it feels cold and oppressive, no matter what time of the year it may be, almost like an emotionless sentry over a royal family. You can also feel the gummy residue of many a wreath, hung for the various holidays, on the face of my door. Running one’s hands over the rest of the framework would be unwise, however, owing to the many rusty nails and old staples from evergreen garlands of Christmases past. Added to the danger of the nails is the splintered wood, almost saying, “Yes I will protect but remember I am a force to be reckoned with.” Ultimately, to the touch, my door is solid and stalwart, ready to stand against any resistance Mother Nature can create.

Who knew one could talk so much about their door. Honestly, I’m kind of sick of it, but if you don’t understand a bit more about what my door looks like then don’t tell me, because at that point I’ll feel like I wasted my time, which I know I didn’t. I learned some very important things about my door, and ultimately myself. Again, I draw back to the significance of the Doors of Ireland. Each one unique, each one stands as a symbol of the inhabitants it protects. As we cross these thresholds, one can only wonder what life will bring them, but if we remember the feelings and memories our doors keep, if we remember what they mean, then a better sense of who we are will follow and we will be able to withstand whatever hard times may come our way.