A Perfectly Good Roof
Great moments in building history: Roofing in the summertime
Sam looked at the western sky from our half-sheathed roof and said with unmistakable urgency, “Fellas, we’ve got 45 minutes to close in this roof!” Fifty-six hours after cutting a 250-sq. ft. hole in a perfectly good roof, we still weren’t secure, and the horizon promised a dramatic 57th hour. The tempo of framing hammers increased as the storm front encroached on a sky that had been cloudless for days.
The project had started well enough—a simple 16-ft. shed-roof dormer to expand our half-story upstairs in anticipation of our first child. Sam, a student of mine bound for medical school, was roofing his way through college and had volunteered his labor and expertise. A minor construction project seemed a manageable short-term task that we could embrace with confidence and enthusiasm—close it in on a weekend, finish it off in a month. As a college professor, my summers were my own, and the dormer project seemed a perfect way to sharpen my homeowner’s skills and stretch our small home for the increased demands of a growing family.
The schedule slipped a bit on Saturday, the second day, but the August skies of Ohio were uncharacteristically clear and dry, with no storm threat on the horizon. The first hint of problems came in midafternoon on Sunday, when a peek at cable weather radar suggested that our blue-sky complacency was soon to be tested.
We finished refitting the iron-hard, 40-year-old yellow-pine roof sheathing just as the first drops started to fall. Armed with two rolls of poly and a staple gun, we did our best to secure my sundered roof from the anticipated onslaught of coming storms. The afternoon showers were mild and brief, offering hope of reprieve. But Sam, who understood better than me the vicissitudes of summer roofing projects, suggested as he left for the night that I should round up some water-catching receptacles, “just in case.” With only mild alarm, I cached 29 pots, pans and assorted plastic waste baskets. Surely 29 would be enough!
Around 10 p. m., when the wind really started to howl, I left my bed for the night. Armed with duct tape, a staple gun and the assorted containers, I ascended the stairs to face the night alone. A single bare bulb and the flashes of lightning illumined skeletal framing and flapping poly, with occasional rivulets of rain penetrating the breached perimeters of a recently solid house. Interludes of droning rain provided many moments to reflect on the hubris of amateur carpentry.
When morning displaced both darkness and clouds, I had staunched the flow of, yes, exactly 29 leaks—unambiguous evidence of a merciful God. I lay down, tired, but no less exhilarated for the knowledge that my victory was less virtue than simple, dumb luck.
About nine, Marguerite advised me not to get too comfortable—expectant stirrings had begun (some three and a half weeks early) and were regular and persistent. Flushed with the quiet confidence that comes with blind good fortune, I was unfazed (at least for the moment). Half a day later, there were three of us to greet a beautiful summer sunset, and the small fears and triumphs of a low-budget dormer project gave way to the larger worries and deeper satisfactions of a growing family.
We were still eating drywall dust at Christmas that year—not the serenity with which one might hope to begin the adventure of parenting, but child, parents and marriage survived these traumas. The room finally took shape and became the focus of life in that house. Mathias has a baseball glove growing from his hand now, and we are settling into a larger home, along with his little brother Brendan. But about the time the two boys can wield framing hammers, well, I’ve got this idea, see…
—Stuart Weibel, Columbus, Ohio
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