The mind is a funny thing sometimes. As forgetful as my dad was, he could remember what each key was for and he had a whole lot of them. For awhile, he even had a little locksmith business going after he retired. He spent a lot of money on this endeavor, which my mother was not happy about, just so he could help people who needed a lock or key. Sometimes he’d be called on to help someone who locked themselves out of the car or house. Often the church would ask him to change their locks and make more keys for them. He did it so often that the Pastor’s son referred to him as the “key man.” Dad always liked to have his clump of keys hanging on his belt, all of them—they were too heavy to keep in a pocket! This was his main reason why he didn’t want the sweat pants I bought for him.
The very first key I ever got from my dad was for a ladder dime bank. It went to a little tiny lock that fit on the bank that said “turn dimes into dollars.” I got a lot of use out of that and saved a lot of dollars over the years with it. That key was a very tiny silver one with notches on both sides. I even had a diary with a lock on it, but I never bothered locking it—I never really wrote anything very
interesting in there. During the 80s, I painted a big plaster key for dad that he hung in his living room! I tried selling it but no one else wanted it so today it hangs in my hallway. I'm glad I still have it. 
