| Getting The Shingles by Marlene McCarty |
| Shingles are no laughing matter. Having the kind that are red and itchy and make a ring around your belly is bad-definitely bad. Not having the kind that sit on your roof and keep the rain from falling on your head is bad too. I've never had the first kind. And for almost a year I didn't have the other kind either. Well, I guess I should say the shingles were there, they were just baaad shingles. At first, the rain came dribbling in. Then splattering in. Then pouring in. And since my landlady lives in B.C. and is so used to being rained on every day, she didn't seem to understand the urgency in my telephone calls or my e-mails stating that I "must" have new shingles. So life went on, and during dry spells the leaky roof problem descended to the bottom of my 'things to fix' list. But last November we received an ungodly amount of rain. One night while I sat blithely at my computer desperately trying to meet a fast-approaching deadline, I could hear-somewhere outside the realm of my foggy, overworked brain-a persistent plop, plop, plop. I didn't dare look up and get sidetracked from my task. I kept typing. The plopping went on plopping. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I turned by head and looked in the kitchen. And there hanging from my kitchen ceiling was the biggest ball I'd ever seen! I could not comprehend what on earth it was or why it was hanging from my ceiling. On closer inspection, however, I realized it was paint. Paint that had stretched so far down with the weight of-what looked to be-gallons of water trapped inside, that it had become a virtual water bomb. At the very bottom of this ball was a perfectly round hole. And it was from this hole that the rain was plopping down upon my kitchen floor. What to do? called the tenant downstairs. Not home. "He's at the coffee shop," his daughter informs me. She called the coffee shop. "She's a big girl; she'll know how to handle it," was his reply to her. Eventually, the daughter came up and we decided to burst the paint/water ball before it literally exploded. Armed with the broom handle, she poked and prodded-It was tough, tough paint-until suddenly it did explode, spewing water in all directions. I spent the next hour mopping. Then I stripped the droopy, deflated paint ball off the ceiling and scraped till only the drywall remained. For the next six months, each rainstorm-and there were many-meant that I had to be quicker than Jack-be-nimble and spend my evenings or middle-of-the-nights, whenever, juggling pots and pans. Eventually, the landlady decided-as if this were an act of benevolence on her part-that she was going to bless us with a new roof. The work was to start on Friday afternoon and end by Saturday. Having an aversion to the sound of hammering on Saturday mornings, I decided to visit a friend for the week-end. So with visions of sparkling new shingles awaiting my return, off I ventured into the wild blue splendor of Luther Marsh. After a relaxing week-end marveling at each great blue heron and each great orange bulldozer sighting, I arrived home Sunday afternoon. I had no way of telling if the shingles now covering my roof were actually 'new' shingles or not. From the ground they looked to be the same colour and size as the ones that were there when I left. However, my son was home and assured me, somewhat tentatively, that the roof was fixed and "everything's fine . . . now," before scurrying back into his room. So imagine my shock next day when someone said to me, with a great big guffaw, "Good thing that roofer didn't fall into your female tenant's room." "Whattttttt!" I screeched. "What roofer?" "Oh," he replied, almost choking on his ill-suppressed laughter. "Didn't Curt tell you? One of the roofers fell through the roof and into his bedroom." "Haaaaaaaaa! That's a cute one. You'd believe anything. Of course nothing like that happened. He must have said it for a joke and forgot to tell you the truth," I replied. "Oh, 'don't think so. He sure sounded serious to me . . ." Back home I confronted my son: "Why in the world would you tell everyone that one of the roofers fell through into your room?" "Ahh . . . umm . . . yeah, well he did." "And you didn't tell me!" I was beginning to feel like I'd fallen down the rabbit hole right behind Alice. "Well," he replied, "they promised to fix it before you came home. But they didn't get around to it. And I knew you'd freak if you saw a great big hole in the . . ." "Great big hole!" Off I tore down the hallway with my son following, trying to prepare me "it's not that bad, really" and "they'll fix it . . ." Well, if ever there was an understatement "not that bad" was it. His room resembled a disaster area. Chunks of drywall and hunks of insulation littered the floor. And the ceiling! A huge gaping hole-large enough for a dozen roofers to have fallen through-greeted my astonished gaze. Looking up into the yawning blackness of the attic, I could see what appeared to be black plastic and a tangle of ribbed, coiled metal pipes or wires. Not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or throw a hissy fit, I managed to do all three within the space of a few minutes. Then it was back to the computer and the telephone to leave frantic messages for my obviously incognito landlady. To date, there has been no response. So while I 'do' have new shingles, I now need a carpenter. Or at least someone who's not afraid of heights. Maybe I should conquer my fear of ladders and do it myself. Or maybe-and really it's just a very fleeting thought-I should look into the possibility of keeping a 'man about the house.' On second thought, I guess the ceiling is not 'that' high after all. (c)2000 Marlene McCarty |
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| Winner of "Ha Ha" Award, Tantalizing Trivialities October 2001 |