It takes longer to get in and out of our doors because we've had deadbolt locks installed. We've had a string of home burglaries in the neighborhood, and the work was overdue.
When leaving the house, we use a key to engage the deadbolt. It takes an extra five seconds; we'll adjust.
The sad thing is every time I click the new locks into place, I think about the reason we had them installed: People can't be trusted.
Of course, that's going too far. I trust you, Mighty Daily Journal reader.
Let me scale back my statement. What I mean to say is we can't trust everybody, which is close to saying we can't trust anybody when you think about it.
In the hours between bedtime Sunday and backing out of the driveway Monday morning, someone stole my wife's bicycle from our carport.
It was about 14 years old. We bought it when we were dating. We took it through an old cemetery in Natchez and rode down a gravel path lined by pine and oak trees in St. Martinville, La.
Before the kids were born, we toured Tupelo neighborhoods on lazy spring and fall days.
We haven't ridden much in recent years, but the kids are growing up and have bikes of their own. We certainly plan to get more mobile.
But we left the old bike in the carport, where it'd been safe for three years. Now, it belongs to someone else.
When I drive through the neighborhood and spot kids on their bikes, a part of me wonders if they're the guilty ones. My suspicions linger until I catch up to them and see they're not on my wife's bike. Then I feel ashamed for thinking the worst of someone else's child.
It's been a weird time, but not oppressive or remotely terrible. I should've locked the bike up in the shed. Others suffered far worse losses.
It's difficult, but I'm trying to avoid thinking too harshly about the people who've committed crimes in the neighborhood.
About 20 years ago, I worked a summer job in Huntsville, Ala., and got into a conversation with a co-worker. I'm not sure how it started.
"I'll bet you know somebody who's in jail right now," he said.
"No way," I said.
He shook his head and said, "You'll see."
A few months later, I learned he'd been right. A guy I'd played basketball with and gone to movies with had been in jail for burglary while I worked that summer job.
My friend's a good guy who got involved with drugs and made some stupid decisions. He's cleaned himself up and made a life since then.
I don't know what he thinks about his victims, or what they think about him.
If they're anything like me, their thoughts are probably too complicated for their own good.
M. Scott Morris is a Daily Journal entertainment writer. Contact him at (662) 678-1589 or firstname.lastname@example.org.