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There are men who go down to the sea in ships, and then there are men who go up on the roofs of houses.
As a member of the latter group, I experience the dangers and delights, the peaks and valleys, so to speak, that, forgive us, may prompt us roofers to walk with a slight swagger when we move among you ground-lubbers.
I am not a roofer in the professional sense, but have roofed since I was a wee bairn of 27, when my wife and I, having purchased our first house, in Salem, Va., found that it needed a new roof. It was a hip roof, possibly the easiest roof to shingle, save that of a shed: five peaks and no valleys, and not a place you can't stand on in a stiff wind.
My wife Honey, bless her, worked beside me as we roofed that house. It was a second roof, so we didn't even have to tear off the old shingles.
Along my road to roofing confidence I had some patient mentors. Most memorable was Joe the Italian, who captained a green crew putting a new roof on the house that Honey's brother-in-law, the Bible Smuggler, built on a remote site in the wild hills above Follansbee. The house was at the end of a bad road requiring the use of tire chains in bad weather, meaning rain.
"You can live with a bad road," the Smuggler said.
"But why would you want to?" I asked.
"Why for you wanna put on black a-shingles? They get-a too hot," Joe the Italian asked the Bible Smuggler.
"You can live with a black roof," the Smuggler replied.
"Why for you no keep on a-chalk a-line?" Joe the Italian chided our green crew for nailing the hot black shingles in crooked courses. {"Course" being construction lingo for "row.")
To this day I can't put on a nail apron without starting to speak in pidgin English like Joe the Italian. The act helps me slip into his capable roofer persona like putting on a comfortable old work vest.
When we built our geodesic dome home 40 years ago, I shingled it myself. It took me a month.
Over the years, I put on or helped put on several asphalt shingle roofs, including the old Miller farmhouse, and put shed metal roofs on farm buildings. When I helped our son Seed build his house, we put on our first standing-seam metal roof, and have put on a couple more since.
Honey has been pushing me for years to fix the roof on our dome house, which was, oh, about 15 years overdue and leaking badly. I had procrastinated because I knew what a job it would be. I knew I'd find a lot of water damage to the plywood and frame. The family was united in their opposition to me doing the job because of age, but I knew no roofing company would touch it, or would charge as much as it cost to build the house. Last summer, Honey threatened to leave me if I didn't do something.
"It's my roof," I said. "I built it. I'll fix it."
I started at the end of September and worked as weather and other commitments allowed over for the next three months. When it got too cold, I switched to the associated task of removing, planing, treating and re-installing the cedar siding.
I finished the siding a couple of weeks ago. I'm back on the roof. I've given myself a month to finish.
I like roof work. Up there I get a view that no one down below is privileged to see. I'm elbow to elbow with the treetops, level with the flitting birds, breathing in the fresh breeze. Up there I feel the first rays of the morning sun as it burns off overnight frost, and see the setting sun wink below the horizon. (Not both in the same day, of course. I'm not nuts.)
There is no National Roofers Day, but there should be. The men, and they are mostly men, who do it for a living know that it is hard, dangerous work, and takes a toll on the body.
I have the luxury of roofing a bit at a time, so I can enjoy it.
Up on the roof, my feet are underneath me, secure on scaffolding or one of my many ladders. My tools are simple: shingle shovel, roofer's nailpuller, utility knife, hammer, tape measure, chalkline, soapstone marker. I use the old three-tab shingles, and the new synthetic underlayments.
My work is in front of me. I know how to do it. The spirit of Joe the Italian is with me.
Life is good on the roof again.
(Fred Miller's third book of stories, "A Dead Carp on Shadyside Ave." is $10 and available locally at Calcutta Giant Eagle, Pottery City Antique Mall, Museum of Ceramics, Frank's Pastries, Davis Bros. pharmacies, Connie's Kitchen restaurant, and the Old Ft. Steuben gift shop.)