Horn and doggie door

My grandparents installed a horn above the garage door on the right. When Grandma flipped a switch inside, the horn sounded to call Grandpa from his shop across the driveway. This horn was quite loud.

One night they had quite a few people visiting, many of whom were outside. When dinner was ready, Grandma flipped the switch. I happened to be standing right underneath it. I was so startled that I dropped to the ground, curled up into a fetal position and covered my ears. “Duck and cover” drills were a thing of the past by then, but that’s pretty much what I must have looked like. Dad howled with laughter, which I didn’t understand or appreciate at the time.

The gate had a doggie door in it. Fence existed to keep out her chickens and whatever other herbivores might try to spoil her yard and garden. The dog, however, was welcome. I never remember a dog at the farm, but the doggie door still existed. I thought crawling through the doggie door was great fun, even though opening the gate would have been much easier.

It was fun until I nearly got stuck. My head and shoulders went through, but my arms were pinioned to my sides. Grandma was inside and Grandpa was in his shop, so no one could help me. Not that I would have wanted help in such an embarrassing predicament. I wiggled and strained and pushed, but did not budge. Finally, after some time and nasty bruises, I popped free. That ended the doggie door for me. Becoming a “big girl” definitely had its price.