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| Something To Look At and Never Grow Tired Of |
To JP:
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| Small Hole photo When Labor Day approaches many people’s attention turns to new school supplies, pumpkins, vivid displays of multi-colored leaves, crisp apples, or other autumnal pleasures, but all of that fades for me as the memory of a tiny hole begins to dominate my thoughts. Until September of 1999, I’d been on the roof of my house only a few times, strictly for pleasure—to watch fireworks, view the night sky and to catch a glimpse of the ocean. For maintenance, the roof was the domain of the other owner and primary caretaker (OO/PC). I’m not an expert, but as roofs go, it seemed pretty easy—only 1 ½ stories off the ground and with just a slight pitch for the main part of the house and almost flat at the back over an add on. Easy, that is, with the right equipment. Our problem was that we only had a step ladder which stopped about three feet short of the gutter. We’d set the ladder up on the large front porch about 5’ above ground, climb past the huge panes of living room window glass to the very top, still about three feet short of the roof, and then take a leap of faith using arm and leg strength over the lip of the gutter to the relative safety of tar and gravel. The way down was backwards only and, the few times I went, I always landed thinking, “Maybe I don’t want to do that again.” Of course, access could have been easier, secure even, with the right kind of ladder. But that wasn’t the way the OO/PC and I tended to think. Our logic was more along the lines of, “We’ve got one ladder. Why do we need two?” The trip to the roof for maintenance by the OO/PC was the dark side of the roof story that often happened as an emergency, in the rain, at odd hours. I heard the complaints, often in the middle of the night, about poorly engineered drains and tried to listen with sympathy and compassion but sometimes I just wanted to go back to sleep. Probably all relationships, no matter how equitable, fall into domains based on interest, habit, tradition, strengths. We both accepted that as his domain. I had plenty of domains of my own to be concerned about. When the OO/PC left just before Labor Day in 1999, the roof was the last thing on my mind. But that hole must have been nagging the former OO/PC. One day I came home to his booming voice on the answering machine reminding me that now, before it rained, would be a good time to check the gutters…”oh, and pay particular attention to the drain at the back of the house, where the roof is flat.” For days I vacillated between a raging, "I can't; I won't," and a defiant, “Who needs you? Just watch me!” I was too proud and too embarrassed to ask for help. And so, I waited until Labor Day weekend when the neighborhood was nearly deserted to bring out the ladder. I set it up as I’d seen the former OOPC do it and climbed tearfully and with shaky knees to the very top. With the grace of a drunken frat boy, I hauled myself up and over the lip to the loose pebbled surface of the roof and gingerly walked as far from the edge as possible and sat down to muster my courage. I was raised in a rigidly conventional household where men work outside and do the heavy lifting and women do just the opposite. As an adult, I’d pushed hard at the boundaries of that kind of thinking by learning many skills that weren’t traditionally female and consciously challenged female and male stereotypes. And yet part of my conflict that day on the roof was feeling abandoned to take care of myself in this way, as if the marriage contract had included til death do us part and eternally clean gutters and all heavy lifting. As I sat at the peak of the roof looking down at the street and wondering if I could or even wanted to take care of myself in this way, a funky pick-up truck screeched up to the curb and parked in front of the big house across the street. I watched from on high as a wild haired man pushed open the door and stepped out. There was a porta-potty at the curb put there for the use of construction workers renovating the house across the street. The skinny, crazy haired man took a few hurky jerky steps in the direction of the porta-potty and then his body bobbing and weaving took the same number of steps backward. He did this many times—forward, backward, touch the handle of the truck, and repeat, until he finally inched his way to his destination and disappeared inside. I was mesmerized, completely transfixed, watching this curious obsessive behavior as if through a one way glass. And then he reappeared and began the dance back to his truck—forward, back, this time bend down, spring up, repeat. Suddenly, he stopped, mid-step, frozen, like a deer catching the whiff of a foreign scent. And then he looked up and zeroed in on me. “Lady,” he called. “Lady. Are you okay up there?” I was shocked. It seemed impossible that he could have sensed me way beyond his field of vision. I dug my feet into the tar and gravel and stood up. I glanced up and down the deserted street. The neighborhood was like a ghost town. It felt like the two of us were alone on earth. “Do you need some help, Lady? I could help you.” “No,” I shouted emphatically, suddenly fully awake. He looked like a toy man, so far away, his eyes hidden by the distance and thicket of hair. “No, thanks for your offer. I’m fine up here.” I said it with a conviction I wanted to believe. "Be careful what you wish for," I thought. And then I turned my back and went off to find the drain where the roof was flat. It was blocked with leaves then, as it has been every fall for the past ten years (sometimes in-between). I think of that tiny hole as my home's Rosetta Stone that begins to speak to me as August fades. Now, 10 years later, I borrow my good neighbor’s extension ladder. And I bring gloves and pruning shears. I clear all the drains and gutters, clip overhanging branches, inspect for wear and critter invasion. When I’m finished, I sit at the peak of the roof and admire the view to the bay, the majestic trees, many older than the surrounding houses, and the sheltering sky that dwarfs it all. I memorize the perspective for future reference, say a final blessing to the roof, drain and gutter gods and climb over the side back to earth. |
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