I love snow. I’m a skier. Snow to me is like Bermuda grass is to an avid golfer. But snow at my place on the river, unlike grass at a golf course, is something I, not the hired help, have to deal with. Here we are, not even through November and we’ve already had nearly thirty inches of the white stuff. Not bad, if you’re a downhill or cross country skier. And I’m both. I think I heard some weather wonk say this is the second snowiest November in a long while. In the big scheme of winter, I’d love to see my house buried in drifts; you know, like those big old windrows of snow we used to dig in, clamber over, and love as kids. It’s been a long, long time since we had such a winter. 1991, to be exact. Well, I’m ready, baby. Let it snow! Except…
There is one slight problem with my prayers to the Almighty to bring the blizzards on. Someone has to get the snow off the roof of our farmhouse. Oh, there’s plenty of pitch on the main roof to make the drifts slide away when the sun finally warms the shingles. But the roof over my writing studio isn’t very steep. It’s got a slight pitch but not nearly severe enough to shed snow, especially when it comes down sticky and wet. And then there’s that one little spot, where three roof lines join together. An aside: As a teen, Dylan, our second son, apparently launched a steel tipped arrow from his compound bow towards the sun. He now confesses (a decade later) that he and his buddies were playing “arrow chicken”; shooting dangerous darts straight up into the air and running hell-bent-for-leather to escape having arrows penetrate their thick skulls. Well, one of Dyl’s arrows ended up on top of our house, right where the three roof lines come together. Snow built up behind the shaft of the arrow. When the sun finally melted the snow around the misplaced missile, the shaft functioned as a dam: Water backed up behind it and eventually found release inside our kitchen wall. It took a month of soggy drywall and warping hardwood flooring for me to figure out the problem. And, like I said, Dylan kept mum for the better part of a decade. Sure, I knew he’d launched the arrow into the air. That part he confessed to shortly after I climbed onto the roof and discovered the source of the leak. But arrow chicken? He copped to that this past week, over Thanksgiving turkey, long after the statute of limitations had expired. Anyway, with all the snow we’ve had so far this year, I announced to Chris and Jack, the only two boys left in the Munger house, that I’d need their help shoveling off the roof. Sure, there were denials and groans. But no outright rebellion. So I figured that when I finally climbed the ladder onto the roof to begin the job, I’d have some help. I was mistaken.
The sun was bright. The fields around our two story house were a dazzling quilt of white. I dressed for weather in my Carharts despite the clear sky.
It’ll be cold up there.
I climbed the stepladder. Standing gingerly on the last step, you know, the one that says “Caution, You Idiot, Don’t Stand Here!”, I tossed my shovel, grabbed hold of a section of wall, and pulled myself onto the roof.
Oh, oh. I don’t think I can get back down.
There was much work to do before I’d be forced to confront the stupidity of what I’d done. I set about shoveling the valleys on the roof, the places likely to accumulate ice and cause water to back up under the shingles. There were no birds beyond a flock of Whistlers, their black and white bodies bobbing nonchalantly upstream of the house, to be seen. Here and there, lazy tracks meandered across the white landscape: Evidence that more than a few deer survived the recent hunting season. It took me about an hour to push, shove, shovel, and toss snow from the roof. By the time I was finished, my jacket was off and my face was red. Then I sat down on sun warmed shingles to ponder my predicament.
Not enough snow to jump. Too far a stretch to get my feet back on the top step of the ladder. Trying to hang from the gutter and free fall will likely cost me a trip to the ER. There’s only one thing to do.
My wife was somewhere in the house. I began pounding my gloved fists on the now snowless roof. I pounded without rhythm, without cadence but I pounded and pounded and pounded.
“Mark, is something the matter?”
Rene’ was on the back porch holding the door open and trying to figure out what was causing the commotion.
“I’m stuck up on the roof. I need Chris to get the big ladder and get me down.”
“OK. I couldn’t figure out who was knocking on the door. Then, when I went to all the doors, I couldn’t find anyone there. You’re lucky I didn’t give up.”
I would have just kept pounding.
“Can you get Chris?”
“He’s in the shower. It’ll take a few minutes. Relax. Enjoy the view. Just don’t do anything stupid.”
I found a warm spot on the flattest part of the roof and sat down. I heard the front door open. I watched Chris wander across snow piles I’d just created.
“Up here.”
“You’re doing it by yourself?”
“I got tired of waiting. Get the big ladder, will you?”
In a minute, the ladder was against the north wall of the house and I was clambering to the ground.
Now, damn it. I am ready. Let it snow.
Peace.
Mark
