When this old world starts getting you down…
“Smell the Coffee” from the Nov. 20 Sunday Gazette-Mail.
From my spot on the ladder I could hear the sounds of their rakes dragging through the leaves, marked with an occasional “Hey! That’s my pile!” or “It’s not big enough to jump in yet.” It was a nice distraction from mucking out gutters.
I really didn’t mind mucking the gutters. It was a nice day to do it. Warm enough for no jacket. The air smelling of smoke. For each section I emptied, I installed gutter screen over top. Simple enough work, but it was taking longer than I expected. I could only work on a small area before having to climb down and move the ladder again. Soon, I decided to climb on the roof and work from up there. It probably wasn’t as safe, but it’s not all that high either. And, truth be told, I love being on the roof.
The house in Nitro where I grew up had attic windows that opened onto the roof so you never needed a ladder. We had a huge pine tree in front of our house, and it was easy to get on the roof, then scoot down the shingles and let the pine tree hide us so my best friend and I could spy on other friends. Usually, though, we’d just sit there and talk, watching cars pass by, watching clouds. There was something special about how the world looked from that slightly different perspective. Even the air felt different. Softer. Cooler.
After I finished the gutters on the back half of the house, I walked around on the roof for a bit, looking for things to inspect or repair, not really wanting to get down. Finding nothing, I decided to stretch out on the still-warm shingles. Apparently, the vibes given off by a mother relaxing triggered that instinctive alarm in my daughter. She had to find me that instant.
“I’m up here,” I answered.
“Can I come up?” Celeste asked.
“Not right now,” I said as I stood and brushed roof grit from my jeans. “It’s getting dark fast. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Please?” she called out. “I’ve never been up there before.”
I thought of all those times at our old house in Nitro and softened. Geoff helped her climb the ladder, and I nervously hovered nearby as she took her first tentative steps on the angled surface.
“This is cool,” Celeste said. “Everything looks so different from here.”
Our dog spotted us up there and, looking hugely distraught, started oof-ing loudly at us. I convinced her to lie flat on the roof, hoping he’d quiet. He did.
So did we.
Shoulder to shoulder we lay on the roof, neither talking for a far longer period than either of us, when conscious, can usually manage. The wind felt and smelled perfect, the neighborhood sounds were just right.
“It looks like it’s getting dark from the ground up,” she said. The sky was still light, but the woods had gone black. She slipped her hand into mine.
It was one of those perfect moments, and as we were lying there, I wished on the first star that this would be something she’d never forget.
Geoff made certain of that. His one small contribution guaranteed neither of us would soon be forgetting our time on the roof.
He’d taken our ladder.
