Password, password, who remembers the password?
By Burton W. Cole
The only “password” I had to remember growing up was my locker number. And I wasn’t always eager to use it. My textbooks were in that locker. And, my nose suggested, a dirty gym sock or two from the previous semester.
Even when I didn’t want to, I remembered my locker password. My brain wasn’t so crowded then. A couple of multiplication tables, the Bat-time and Bat-channel for “Batman,” a handful of phone numbers and my locker number. That’s it.
At ages 8, 9 and 10, I didn’t have to remember any anniversaries or the color of anyone’s eyes. I didn’t have to spout off my Social Security number or the dates I began and left my last six jobs to join 4-H. I only needed to recall which dairy cow was mine, and since she was in my barn, it wasn’t difficult.
And no one ever asked for a password — unless we were both wearing secret decoder rings. Even then, we routinely forgot.
“‘The eagle flies at midnight.’”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“That’s the password.”
“Nuh-uh. Today’s password is ‘the dog barks at noon.’ I can’t let you inside the blanket fort unless you say that.”
“That’s a stupid password. The dog barks all the time. How about ‘the dog barks at 2:17’ Or ‘the dog barks at 13 o’clock’?”
“Close enough. C’mon in.”
Nowadays, a password is required for everything. And it’s never “close enough.”
Read your email? Need a password. Check your rewards card amount at the fast-food place? Password. Unlock my car without a key? Password.
I can’t even pay my bills online without typing in my password first.
I called the automated number to make electronic payments to my insurance company. “All right, bill pay,” the voice intoned. “Please say or enter on your keypad your nine-digit policy number.”
I typed it in. It wasn’t good enough for Mr. Automated Voice.
“Now, for security purposes, please say or enter the year you were born.” I can’t even remember my nine-digit policy number. Why would anyone else be running around with that number lodged in their skull?
I signed and typed four digits of my birth year.
“And what month were you born?” I tapped another couple keys.
Why? I get not allowing cash withdrawals from bank account without a password. But, Mr. Automated Voice, if someone wants to pay my electric bill, my medical bills or my credit cards, don’t discourage would-be benefactors with trivialities like secret codes (the duck quacks at 6:34), my mother’s maiden name (Miss) or my favorite musical instrument (baked beans).
LET THEM PAY! You want money and I don’t have any. It would benefit both of us to leave the payment side open.
With all those passwords playing bumper cars in my head — each one with at least one upper case letter, at least one lower case letter, at least one number, at least one symbol, at least two pretzels and at least six Hershey’s Kisses — I’m at the blanket fort without a clue if the chicken clucks at midnight or the earthworm growls at dawn.
As a sign I recently saw put it: My brain logged me out due to inactivity. Now I can’t remember my password.
I think the next time a creditor won’t take my money until I say the secret password, I’m going to use the one that always worked in the days of the blanket fort: “I’m telling Mom!” That’s the password that always worked.
Write Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. The password is “the cow moos at barking chickens.”