This could have been the day...
My Grandad Lenard built the house we live in, around 1930. My husband, Brad is convinced he got up one morning, stepped it off and built it- absent a tape measure. Nothing is level. This has never bothered me, but he’s more of a perfectionist when it comes to which way spilled milk flows. We’re always working on it. On doors, on stools, on leaky ceilings, etc. etc. etc. It’s always something. But we love it.
A beautiful purple glass knob graced the door of one our bathrooms…most of the time. There was a certain way to open and close that door or the handle would fall apart leaving you stuck in the bathroom with one piece in your hand and the other on the floor outside the door. You pretty much had to be a family member to know the combination.
This booby trap bathroom was located in a remote area of our house. If you became trapped and everyone moved on to the north end of the house out of ear reach, you were pretty much on your own until someone noticed you were missing.
The Schwan’s man didn’t know the combination. Late one afternoon while fixing supper for a houseful of kids; my four and several friends and cousins, he made the mistake of asking to use the restroom. Dodging kids, noise level a low roar, I absent mindedly nod towards the hallway. That was the last I saw of him… I forgot all about him. We all moved into the north side of the house, far, far away from the remote bathroom location. Coming back into the kitchen about twenty minutes later to check on supper, I heard a faint knock coming from the hallway. I was stricken. I was so embarrassed I couldn’t go get him out. I can’t remember which kid released him, but he escaped unharmed. I said I never saw him again. I literally didn’t. He never came back.
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