Daddy and I were standing in the kitchen of our 19th century house, looking at a cluster of keys, hanging from a nail. Daddy took them down.
“They all look the same,” I said. “Except the little silver one with ‘Master’ written on it.”
“That one’s for the padlock, at the shop,” Daddy smiled.
The rest of the keys were of black metal with circular handles, round shafts with flag-shaped pieces on the ends.
The lock was of cast iron, maybe three by four inches, and about a half an inch deep, screwed onto interior side of the door. Daddy opened the door so we could see the business end of the lock. Then he handed one of the keys to me, as we approached it from its exterior side.
“Push the key all the way through the door” he said, “then feel for the lock opening.”
The key slipped into place easily, I turned it clockwise, then felt only slight resistance as the dead bolt came out.
“Now look here,” Daddy said, pointing to a narrow metal striker box, on the interior door facing. “The bolt pushes in here, to hold the door shut.”
I retracted the bolt, Daddy closed the door, then I peeked into the space between the lock and the striker box, turning the key, I saw the deadbolt move into the box.
I pulled the door knob, but the deadbolt held the door fast.
“Why don’t we ever use these keys?” I asked.
“We don’t have to lock our doors,” he said. “No one ever bothers you here.”
He paused.
“Try this key. “
I had to wiggle this one to get it into the lock, and I had to wiggle it before it would force the deadbolt out. Removing the key from the lock was just as difficult.
“Why is this key so much harder?” I wondered, as I handed it to him.
“It’s got a little different cut in its flag,” Daddy smiled, “But if you’re a good wiggler, you can still open a lot of locks with any skeleton key.”
“A skeleton key?” I held my key up. “It doesn’t look like a skeleton.”
“But the keyhole looks like a skull.”
I bent down to look: the hole was shaped like a lollipop.
“I still don’t see it, Daddy.”
“The round hole is the top half of a skull, the slot is its bottom half.”
“Oh,” I said, wondering why they weren’t called skull keys.
During the 1950s, while I still lived at home, all the old houses had skeleton keys, most of which hung on nails, or lay in drawers or boxes. Everyone had a bunch of the cheap keys, but only used them when they left town for a week.
As far as I remember, I never used a skeleton key after that day; but although I always locked my house, I never saw the need to lock my car. Then one night, about 10 years ago, I heard a noise outside, but saw nothing suspicious when I walked onto the porch.
“We live in the country,” I reasoned, “nobody would bother us out here.”
A week later, P.J. and I were sitting in the Knife and Fork eating supper, when I realized I was late for a string band rehearsal.
“I better call Mose,” I said, then walked to the car to get my cellphone, but when I looked in the glove box, it was not there, nor anywhere else in the car. “I’ll lock my car now,” I said, as I dialed the phone at the desk.
Back last winter, I turned the key in my trunk lid, but the lid wouldn’t open. So I used the key as a handle to raise the lid, bending the blade about 15 degrees in the process. With the key still in the lock, I bent it back straight — almost.
“Whew,” I said when the key cranked the car. “Oops,” I said, when l found a stress fracture on either side of the blade. So I put that key aside, and began using the spare. After the spare disappeared, I cranked up with the damaged key, and drove to the hardware store to get a duplicate.
“What model is your car?” the key maker asked.
“2007.”
“This key may have a chip in it,” he said as he found a suitable key blank. “If it does, this duplicate won’t work. But if it doesn’t, you won’t have to pay for it.”
He locked both keys into the duplicating machine, ground the hills and valleys into the new blank, then handed them to me.
“See if this will work,” he said.
After some extra buffing, the new key opened the door and turned on the ignition. So I carried it back in, and paid the cashier $2.40.
“See you,” I said to the key man on the way out.
“Not so fast,” my engine cautioned as it turned, but failed to fire.
“It’s going to take a chip key,” I said to myself. Walking back inside, I met a woman holding a ring full of car keys.
“I got my ignition key replaced the other day,” she said.
“Would you mind telling me how much it cost?”
“Over $200,” she replied.
“What year model is your car?” I asked.
“2005,” she replied.
“I’m in trouble,” I said.
She recommended that I keep the new key, and store it in a magnetic box under the car, so I could at least get to my cellphone to call for help if I ever locked myself out.
I agreed, then began talking to myself again.
“No way I’m going to pay two hundred bucks for a key,” I said. “I’ll call the dealership.”
“How do I get a replacement key,” I asked.
“Drive up to the service bay,” the voice said. “Someone will come out to help you.”
“Any idea of what a replacement key will cost?”
“The key runs $42.”
“Wonderful,” I said, “only 42 bucks.”
“Plus programing.”
So I drove to the dealership, where a smiling service attendant met me. I left the entire car with her — not just the key — an arrangement which I thought was strange. After two hours, she came back to say my car was ready, and handed me the bill.
“Whoa,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she smiled.
“I’m not upset with you,” I said. “It’s just sticker shock.”
The key blank cost $36.51. Programing the key cost $145.86, almost five times that amount. Add a $20 miscellaneous fee, and tax and the total came to $216.50. In spite of what the woman at the hardware store told me, I still could not believe it would cost so much to program a car key.
Then I remembered that my son paid $175 to have a heater hose installed in a Camaro, 20 years ago — a task which took less than 10 minutes. As we gasped at the bill, the tech said he had only charged us the book price to install a Camaro heater hose. We gasped again. I guess the book price for programing a car key must have been $145.86.
A few days later, I remembered that my service attendant had tried get me a key directly from the parts department.
“I can sell you the key,” the parts guy said. “But I can’t program it.”
She turned to me. “I thought I might save you some money,” she sighed.
As I recalled the key experience, an unbidden video appeared on my computer, one which showed how to insert a non-programed key into the ignition, then follow four steps to let the car program its own new key. Now I realized why the tech needed the entire car to program its key. You can find the video at https://itstillruns.com/program-car-keys-6471878.html.
So if you need a new smart key, you might consider buying one from a parts guy, having the brass duplicated at a hardware store, watching the video, then following the steps to get your car to program the new key, for free.
I haven’t tried it yet, but I think I might. Keys should be cheaper.