Right time, right place

When we replaced the smoke/CO detectors with ones that report to our phones, the frugal among us said, sure! Keep the old ones that had a couple years left on the sticker. Why not. Who knows. This human (cough) shall remain nameless).

So today, as I innocently puttered with Airbnb listings and my beloved dug up wonky irrigation heads, a story unfolded beneath our feet. Now, if this were a film, perhaps one of those with dramatic crime scenes lit with a single, swinging lightbulb, you (dear reader) would now follow the ping.

Down a squeaky staircase.

Ping.

Along a stone foundation.

Ping.

And just before the commercial break (remember those?) the camera would suggestively focus in on a box in a dark corner.

Back from commercial and upstairs, I gathered our things and begin the “leaving checklist.” The walk took me into the guest kitchen and near the basement door, which I noticed remained unlatched. Another step revealed the light left on. I flicked the switch, but a glow remained, understandably nearest the irrigation box. And thus my foot did indeed touch the top step of the (actually quite sturdy) staircase.

Ping.

“Hey Darcy, there’s a ping downstairs,”

“Yeah, I heard it earlier,” he nonchalantly replied.

Ping.

How annoying, I thought. We literally installed these a few weeks ago! I descended the stairs, stood underneath the plastic square and saw no red light, and…ping…from somewhere else?

My good man and I tracked back and forth across the basement several times, “that way!” our eyes scouring the unfinished ceiling for a device so cleverly hidden, “no, that way!” in the shadows of (yes, truly) single light bulb.

Then finally, standing in a side room, with (indeed, we will make a basement tour) all the architectural evidence of the original house around us, our eyes would light on a box and our fate would be sealed.

This box had so carefully been labeled it left no doubt a sad little battery within lacked juice to live. And this, dear friends, is where the story’s climax occurs…for when the one red blink was located, a divinely orchestrated attack of the eardrums erupted.

As you know with modern equipment, one triggers all. I leave you to the image of myself dashing up the stairs, a screaming box of 12 devices in hand, to play a game of whack a mole with pause buttons while Darcy yanked out batteries.

I present you with the carcasses of the event and my new love of tossing out the old.