Life's little lessons.

Camping never seems really dirty until I am back in the normal, clean world. I arrived home yesterday, hit the showers, and watched the dirt run down the drain. Central Oregon was dusty, hot, dry and swarming with yellow jackets.

It was wonderful to be outdoors. We hiked to the top of the rim rocks to see the valley, and we sat in circles of lawn-chair conversation. I am grateful to have an extended family that bonds over games of Rook in the shade and blazing campfires at night. I look forward to being outdoors with them every year. But I was really glad to get home and get clean.

After showering and starting some laundry, I moved my belongings over to my new house. At the moment most things are still stacked in the garage, but at least the process has begun! I spent today cleaning every room from top to bottom, and tomorrow I will paint.

My first morning at the new place turned out to be quite an event. Allow me to give some background: there is an internal security system installed in my house. The previous owners explained to me that they never used it, and they had no idea how to turn it on or off. It's role during their stay had been limited to blinking gentle green lights when the front door opened or closed.

Now part of the cleaning process was having the carpets shampooed, and I was expecting the serviceman at 9:00 AM this morning. While I was waiting for him to arrive, I noticed that the security panel was blinking. Thinking that I might have some luck figuring out the system, I went over and started punching buttons. After all, how hard could it be to reset a system that required a password from a complete stranger that I have very little chance of ever meeting? Really. I did manage to generate some change. After a few minutes of experimentation, a light came on that said armed, and the blinking stopped.

"Hmm," I thought, "I wonder what that means." About that time the carpet service van rolled up. When I opened the front door to greet him, the panel started beeping in a shrill tone. The beeping got faster and faster. Before the serviceman had exited his truck, the beeping had given way to an ear-shattering siren that wailed above the front door.

I pushed buttons frantically. Nothing affected the piercing, merciless tone. On top of the obvious stress of the moment, I realized what an impression I must be making on my new neighbors. If they didn't know I had moved in by that point, it certainly cleared up all doubt. I shut the front door and ran into the yard to explain my situation. The serviceman went inside to see if he could help while I phoned the alarm company from the front lawn.

The phone number- the one on the panel and the stickers in the window- took me to an operator with the emergency services. She told me that the system was internal (not subscription service), so she could not help me. She suggested I call local alarm specialist.

I called directory assistance (I don't have a phonebook yet), and asked for an alarm company. The operator seemed unaffected by the edge of panic in my voice and the screaming siren in the background. I asked him to pick whatever number looked best to him, and he transferred me with the standard exit, "Have a nice day!"

The service representative at the alarm specialist's number seemed a bit more sympathetic to my immediate need. She mentioned that many alarms are connected to breakers, and others have battery backups in closets. With that helpful hint, I went back inside to see if the carpet man-turned-alarm specialist found the information useful.

The carpet man had tried the breaker, and it didn't help. After a little searching, we found a beige battery box in the top of a closet. We undid the screws and disconnected the screaming hellion. The first moment of silence was almost as shocking as the alarm. The entire process had taken about fifteen minutes, although it felt like an hour.

The events of this morning did not make me feel incredibly intelligent, but it did teach me a valuable lesson: one should never play with an alarm system that she is not capable of disarming. I am sure that there is a deeper metaphor for life in there somewhere.