I’m up on my roof. I’m here because this is where my wife sent me. She noticed some debris had collected between two gables and was sure I was just the one who could take care of that problem. Between those two gables is a trapezoidal section covered with flashing and is fairly flat, so it is a natural staging area for fallen twigs and leaves to rest. I am always hopeful Mother Nature will sweep them away with a succession of her bouts of stormy temper before my wife notices them. She is a stickler for detail. She’s not obsessive-compulsive or anything. It’s just that there are some particular things that she feels important for appearances sake. If the pleat of a bed skirt is not lying flat, a throw pillow out of place, or there are dead bugs inside the opaque cover of an outdoor light fixture, it will get her attention. And sometimes her concerns eventually mean more work for me. Unfortunately one of those times is right now because the proper weather patterns never materialized to save me from this death-defying mission.
My work is done. I managed to knock down all the twigs and leaves without participating in their decent. Since the incline is minimal in this spot, I feel safe though. Actually it’s kind of cool here. I can stand, or I can sit down and rest my ass on the steeper part of the roof and let my mind wonder reflectively, or better yet, scan the neighborhood and mentally make fun of people I see walking around. You get a different perspective up here. I have a six foot fence that surrounds most of my back yard, and naturally that inhibits a lot of human interaction. And that’s the whole point of a six foot fence really. I don’t care to know your business, and I sure as hell don’t want you nosing around in mine. Geez, there’s my next door neighbor strutting around without a shirt on again. My wife hates that. Usually there’s an accompanying episode or two of plumber’s crack she feels she has do endure. I keep telling her she doesn’t have to look at it. Change the channel for Pete’s sake. But my wife was raised with a strong sense of right and wrong, and coursing through all of it is a very elevated expectation of common decency.
Man I didn’t realize how nice the neighbor’s yard is behind me. It used to be little more than a stark testament to what man can accomplish when he completely gives up on ambition- discarded containers and tires strewn throughout the yard, piles of dog shit on the patio, and every once in awhile the smell of a dead animal rotting away in the total concealment of weeds that were knee-high. That new guy really got the place in shape. Next to him lives a short, chubby guy who I have been told is an ambulance chasing attorney and is a total asshole. That’s the story circulating in the neighborhood anyway. He has some great power tools though. He’s always firing something up and waking me from my afternoon nap. That strikes my wife as being inconsiderate. If there is one word to describe my wife it’s considerate. Champion of the underdog. God don’t get her started on the plight of the Native American, unless you’re game for a rousing psychological bitch slapping.
Then right next to the attorney is- you know I don’t know who lives there. But next to that house live the Wamplers. The boys are a handful and I can’t say I appreciate all the discharged bottle rockets I find in my backyard during the first week of every July. Old man Wampler is a character though. He is a neighborhood philosopher of sorts, likes to hand out unsolicited advice, and will surprise with a folksy saying every once in awhile. One time when he was walking by my house we got engaged in a conversation about vacations we have taken and he made a point of emphasizing how important it was to take one by stating, “No matter what, once every year I pack up all my kids that aren’t in jail and just head out of town.” That’s a sentiment that somehow just sticks with you.
Little Bobby Wampler Pictured Here the Day After Last Year’s Wampler 4th of July Celebration
Well enough of the contemplation. It’s time to think about getting off of my roof. Damn I forgot about this part. At some point I have to scoot backwards to get onto my ladder. If you think that’s easy, well eat shit. Except for the section I was resting on, my roof is a series of 45 degree pitches. God I hate this. My wife would calm me down if she were up here. I tend to get all panicky if I’m not reasonably certain of an outcome. But my wife is forever the optimist, her cup always half full, although this Trump business is wearing on her a bit. It’s almost refreshing to hear her complain about something. I love that woman. Holy shit! You know what I just remembered? It’s my wedding anniversary.
Ordinarily I’m not the romantic type. I can safely say no one who knows me would argue that point. I don’t mean to sound like I’m proud of it or anything. It’s just the way I am. I suppose I could put more effort into that factor of the relationship equation. But through the years I’ve managed to convince my wife all holidays are just a capitalistic scam and if we are smart we should always forgo the pretentiousness. Basically my feeling is neither of us should have to explain ourselves. We know how we feel. For Pete’s sake we’ve put up with each other for 46 years so obviously we are not lacking in communications skills.
That’s me. Is that wrong? Right now I’m beginning to think so. It’s not that I don’t appreciate my wife. She is a remarkable woman. She’s thoughtful, bright, loving, generous, patient, and holy cow is she a thorough housekeeper. Very methodical. And organized. How did I get so lucky. Now I kind of feel like a dick. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
My Wife is a Housekeeping Wizard
Sometimes we banter about who will die first. If that topic comes up, it’s usually because we have just reflected on the genetic background of our respective families. Since my mother is 98 and remarkably spry, we inevitably conclude that I would be the winner. That’s if you believe there is victory in living longer. But in fact I would be the loser in our situation. I have to go out first. I can’t figure out that damn dishwasher. And the washing machine? Just forget about it. All those cycles and nobs and settings. Bunch of unnecessary manufacturer’s hubris if you ask me. It might end for me in a few minutes if I and my aluminum ladder make contact with those power lines attached to my house. With my luck though the only thing I’d take down would be the cable TV service. Then I’d be lying in bed all crippled up without any television. That would really suck.
Shit I hate being up here. If I make it back to earth I swear I’ll turn over a new leaf. I’m going to hop in my car and go get my wife an anniversary card, one that is overflowing with syrupy romanticism. And a present too. I think she’d really enjoy a box of Swiffers. I don’t know what they are, but she is always raving about them.
So, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY SWEATHEART! I LOVE YOU VERY, VERY MUCH. Now please call the fire department and see if they can send someone to get me down from here.
Also, if you believe I’m up here on this roof with my lap top you’re kind of a dumb shit. If you can’t figure out how I wrote this you’ll have to go ask someone who is a little more perceptive.
.