September roofsit

An epiphany... I think.

ROOFTOP – Did any of you notice how clean the siding of the house is? Well, by the time we’re through here, it’ll be too dark for you to see it, so climb down and take a look now. -- Yes, I’m joking. Sit back down. Don’t get me wrong, the siding looks great, but it’s not worth a double descent. Some of you haven’t fully recovered from your climb up here.

  Okay, back to the siding. Monday, a guy who works for a pressure-washing company came out and sprayed the daylights out of this place. Used an Eco-friendly brown oily stuff. In fact, I think that was the name of it. With oily stuff, algae is supposed to stay off the siding for seven years. And, the spray won’t kill the grass, the flowers or harm the neighbor’s cats. Shoot.

I signed up for a $100 spray job, but ended up paying more for Eco-friendliness and window spraying and porch-post-mildew-killing and for telephone line sagging. It’s the ol’ bait and switch thing. For what the job ended up costing me, I could have purchased my own spray washer and had Kay do the job.

But, let’s forget that. I’m sorry you even brought it up. We’re up here tonight to ponder, not to gripe. Some of you may have to remind me of that a time or two, ‘cause I tend to wander when I ponder. – What?

What’s been monopolizing my brain of late is something quite aggravating. But, I’m not griping about it, you understand? It’s just the thought that if I could remember half of the stuff I know, I’d be the smartest person up here.

Every single day I pack in a bunch of information. I’ve seen dozens… billions of documentaries about space, nature, history, math, uh… stuff. But, I can’t remember a fraction of what I know. It’s up there, all right; I just don’t know the password to bring it down. It’s like a joke. I’ll it hear it one minute and forget it the next. Just chaps my chapables.

A couple of you may recall an article I wrote about a conversation I had with Kay’s brother, Mike, a couple of years back. Actually, it was more of a lecture than a conversation. Mike was pontificating about the universe. The guy has a Masters Degree in Physics and Math. And, he’s blind! He has to keep all of the equations and theorems in his mind, ‘cause he can’t see ‘em written out.  He’s the smartest guy I know. I could just slap him.

Anyway, Mike was sitting across the kitchen table from me talking about the possibilities of us having more than just five senses. Say, 18. And we’re living in a place with 30 different dimensions. I was making all kinds faces at Mike while he was explaining this to me, because he was talking way over my head. And, because he couldn’t see me doing it. By the way, he’s got a great sense of humor.

But, at one point I quit making faces and started listening. That’s when I had an epiphany. You know, something that, uh, hits you that, uh…? Well, I don’t know what it is, but I had one. I latched onto that thought for about two seconds. Then it was gone.

But, for a moment, I understood the mysteries of faith, hope, fear, life, and spirituality. All the important stuff. And, I wasn’t on drugs. I was taking medication for gout, but I don’t think it had anything to do with the vanishing epiphany. The pills don’t even have much to do with my gout.

 Regardless, the brief realization that captured my mind is somewhere in my brain just waiting to be called to memory. The only way it’s going to resurface is when I’m falling off a cliff and seeing my life flash before my eyes. I have every confidence that’ll meet the ground just before the epiphany shows itself.

  So, that’s why I’m up here cogitating. Just trying to get a grip on things. Not a gripe; a grip. But, I’m also up here so I can apologize to monarch butterflies everywhere. I don’t see any at the moment, but they’re probably listening. Some of you may remember an article where I insulted monarch butterflies for being too selective in what they eat? They only eat milkweed. I hinted that that was the reason they’re numbers are down.

Well, I saw one of those nature shows yesterday, and learned that milkweed contains a toxin that doesn’t hurt monarch caterpillars, but it makes them taste terrible to predators. Sickening, even. Lizards, birds and snakes won’t eat monarchs. Polar bears can take ‘em or leave ‘em.

What I considered to be a factor in the near-eradication of monarchs, is actually something that’s kept them alive for centuries. If mama monarchs laid their eggs on the leaves of just any plant, the caterpillars would taste better and geckos would eat ‘em up. Vile-looking creatures, you ask me.

So, I now apologize to monarch butterflies for insulting them, and I apologize to their Maker for questioning His reasons for milkweed. I still don’t understand the purpose of lovebugs, but their place in the food chain is likely responsible for the preservation of orcas. --  I’m pretty sure all of that was covered in my epiphany… not that it’s doing me any good.  -- Next time.

end 

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Maybe Lost Maples

“Trip Planning”

Kay and I are going on a trip this fall, and it doesn’t matter what I say. That’s a good indication that at some point this fall I will be spending a couple nights in a bed other than my own.

I can deal with that. I HAVE dealt with that. I’ve slept in many a bed not my own. (I’ll revisit that statement later and probably edit it out.) Back in 1970, Fred Musgrove and I once spent the night in $6-a-night hotel in downtown Winnfield, Louisiana. We would’ve gotten separate rooms, but were too scared to room alone.

When we checked in, we were checked over by about 15 guys in the lobby who had 38 teeth among ‘em. I think they were curious by the fact that we were both wearing shirts. Truth is, we were doing some forestry research for SFA, and had spent all but $10 of our daily per diem on meals.

The restroom for the entire third floor of the hotel was about five doors down..  Speaking of doors, ours would not shut nor lock. Musgrove managed to wedge a chair against it. It was about 90 degrees in the fanless room, and we slept fully clothed atop the bedspread. Other than the heat and the smell, the only other disturbance came at around 3:00 a.m. when the ghost of Huey P. Long appeared in the corner of the room. I lost a lot of respect for Governor Long that night.

I brought up this story because it was related to sleeping in a different locale. It had nothing to do with the notion that Kay and I might visit Winnfield, Lousiana this fall. That’s not happening no matter what Kay says.

Point is, we don’t know where we’re going. Kay keeps mentioning a trip to Lost Maples State Natural Area. I thought it was a State Park, but it’s officially called a “Natural Area.” I’m assuming they changed the name after managing to clear out all of the unnatural stuff from the Park.

The Lost Maples aren’t really lost, you understand? They’re about eight miles north of Vanderpool. The only thing lost out there is the area north of Lost Maples. You’ll see next to nothing for the next 200 miles to Abilene.

To stay over night in the area of Lost Maples, I think you have to either camp out or rent a cabin near Vanderpool that has beds made out of cow horns. You ask me, “rustic” is not much of a draw. I was born and raised in rustic. And, I experienced the epitome of rustic while in Winnfield, LA. (See above.)

Lost Maples may be the best place for us. I just don’t know. Kay and I have been all over Texas. Other than the misplaced maples, I doubt there’s anything we haven’t seen in this state. I take that back. This evening we met some friends for a burger at JAX over on College Park. During our—What? Yes it was a good burger. May I continue?

During our two-hour visit, our friends mentioned the Five Painted Churches of Schulenburg. (The town name has several pronunciations. The most accurate I’ve found is “Shoe-limb-bursitis.” The very reason I didn’t take German in High School.) Kay and I have passed through Schulenberg more than once. We never spent a great deal of time looking at painted church buildings, though, ‘cause we just assumed ALL of them were painted. You see one painted church, you’ve seen ‘em all.

When we got home from the good burger place, I googled “Painted Churches.” (That’s a crime in most states.) Anyway, I discovered that practically all of the church buildings in Shoe Town are painted. It’s just that five of them are spectacularly ornate. Definitely worth seeing. So, there’s a chance we could visit both the Painted Churches and the Lost Maples in one trip. That way we’ll circumvent Winnfield, LA altogether.

You wanna know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy. Jill is also taking a Texas vacation this fall, and she’s going by herself. She enjoys travelling alone. Jill can stop anywhere she wants. She doesn’t have to argue over where to eat or what to see. And, she can get lost without yelling at herself. In fact, Jill told me that getting lost is part of the fun of a trip. Is it any wonder I love my sister?

Jill has had her route mapped out since February. Among her stops will be Cedar Creek, where she’ll see Ms. Pearl the Giant Squirrel. She’ll go to Elroy to see the giant smiley-face water tower. She plans to see a giant spider sculpture in Austin and an eight-acre corn maze in Rocky Creek. They even have a corn cannon. I’ve never seen a corn cannon. And, I’m sure I’ll be able to repeat that fact on my deathbed.

I used to plan trips pretty much the way Jill does. Somewhere down the line, I discovered that the actual trip never measured up to the planning. To keep from any further disappointment, I let Kay plan our trips. So far, she doesn’t know when we’re going or exactly where we’re going… just that we’re going. Lost Maples, Schulemberg, Pancake, Texas (Population 11)…

I’m leaning toward Pancake on a Friday night. I’m curious to see their high school marching band. – Next time.

end 

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Ping!

Making the ping sound

Al in process of clobbering the ball

On the way home from China Delight last week, I noticed Big Al’s truck parked at the driving range. It seemed like a great evening to spend some time with my kid brother, so I dropped Kay off at the house and headed back for Golf World.

The area had about six guys hitting balls. As I walked down the path, I passed two guys leaving. One must’ve been a pro, ‘cause he was telling the other guy how to improve his golf swing.

Have you ever had someone try to improve your golf swing? You just want to slap ‘em. “Keep your elbow straight. Not that one! Quit slouching! Look how you’re holding that club?” Dad was one whale of teacher… and I was one lousy student.

But, let’s get back to Big Al… who happened to be sitting on a foldout chair under an awning. There was a guy walking in front of me carrying a leather golf bag full of clubs of all denominations. Anything over five clubs is just showing off, you ask me.

Al escorted the guy with the big bag into the office and got him squared away with a wire-basket of balls. Oh, I forgot to tell you that Al wasn’t at Golf World to golf. He occasionally manages the place for the owner. Al is related to the owner by marriage. I don’t mean he’s married to the owner, you understand? He just… O’ forget it.

Me? I’m not related to the owner, so Al would probably make me pay for my own bucket of balls. Fortunately, I didn’t care to hit any balls that evening. I got my share of hitting during my last visit. That’s when Al let me use one of those drivers with the huge club-head. The head of this club was as big my cereal bowl. And, it was made of titanium.

No one knows what titanium really is, but it’s used to make everything from bulletproof vests to non-stick Jello molds… oh, and golf clubs. It’s really good with golf clubs. I never hit a ball so far in all my life. And, each time I hit one, it went “PING!” What a great sound. “PING!” Unfortunately, I only got to hear about 10 pings, ‘cause I wore myself out fast. The club is so light that it makes you want to really bear down and swing. If I had to hit a whole bucket of balls, I’d have a cardiac.

But, I didn’t hit any balls on this particular evening. Instead, Al and I sat out there till dusk and talked about important stuff. Mostly, Al answered questions. – “Al, how is the acting going? How many auditions did you have last month? Where are you going on your next trip? If I borrowed your camping trailer, would you haul it for me?” -- Stuff like that.

Al had nursed his cigar down to about an inch and a half by nightfall. Al gets everything out of a cigar there is to get. And, as luck would have it, the only golfer remaining was getting every minute of golfing time he could. It was a couple of minutes before closing, when the guy asked for another bucket of balls.

A picture of the balls; not the machine that
picked 'em up. That's top secret.

I don’t know how you determine the official closing time at a golfing range. If someone asks for another bucket of balls just before closing time, does that mean he gets to stay until he hits them all?

Apparently, that’s what Al thought the rule was, ‘cause he let the guy stay. However, he did ask the guy to hit at the far end, so that we could pick up balls while he finished off his bucket. – That meant that I was going to get to ride with Al on the ball-vacuum machine.

Do you know how the machine picks up balls? It’s got these big roller things with grooves that run over the balls and somehow chunks ‘em into a one of about five baskets. I’m sure that one of the parts of the machine was made of titanium. Chinese titanium.

It is so neat to be riding at night on a golf ball-sucking tractor, across a well-mowed, field. I asked Al how fun it was to drive the tractor. He said, “Do you wanna drive this thing?” -- I asked him if he’d let me. He nodded and said, “No.”

At one point, I hopped off the tractor and grabbed a pitching wedge and started knocking the hard-to-reach balls onto the middle of the field so the tractor could get to ‘em. The way I was swinging the club, it would’ve taken me three days to get all those balls in the right place. So, I started picking ‘em up and throwing ‘em in the middle of the field.

A little while later, Al parked the tractor, grabbed a seven iron and joined me. At one point I looked over at him and said, “Al, when we were kids, did you ever imagine we’d be together on a driving range picking up golf balls? He thought for a moment and said, “No, I didn’t see this in our future.”

Neither did I. But, had I imagined it, I must say it turned out to be a lot more fun than I would’ve dreamed. For some reason weird stuff makes for the best memories. You ever notice that? – Next time.

end

mark@rooftopwriter.com

Followup

“And that’s the rest of the story” 

“Closure” is a word that has been overused for, oh, 30 or so years. Since the time of Henry II, closure had been used in reference to something that shuts. Unfortunately, in 1986, Rayan Collins wondered if it could be used to explain why people go nuts. -- They've got no closure!

Along those lines, I get calls and e-mails all the time from people demanding closure on my articles. “Why do you start something without telling the reader how it ends? What kind of a jerk does that?” I usually give my pat answer – “Oh, yeah? Well, so are you.”

However, this morning I shall pretend to be an adult by providing closure on a couple of stories. I shall start with the caterpillar story. I ended the article right after the chrysalis was formed. I stopped there because the stupid cocoon just hung there past my deadline.

Oh, I could’ve made an ending about a butterfly that appeared and spelled out “Thank you” in butterfly spit. But, nooo. I’m not going to make up something. Except maybe that story about Rayan Collins in 1986.

Well, now, I know the ending to the story of caterpillar. On the morning of the Twelfth Day of its chrysalis stage, I discovered that the beautiful, jade-colored, small chrysalis had turned black.  Immediately, I thought the worst… ‘cause that’s what I do.

Kay was away in Austin, taking care of her brother and his ailing wife. I would’ve been with her, but someone had to look after the caterpillar. I called Kay to give the news about the death of her pet. Unfortunately, she had blocked my calls. Or, her battery was dead. I’m pretty sure she blocked me, though.

I decided to read the newspaper, to get my mind off the dying or dead caterpillar. While on my way to the Keurig, I saw it… some small sticky-looking butterfly wings coming out of a transparent shell of a chrysalis

My first thought was – Coffee! – But, I quickly chased that thought away and replaced it with – Camera! – After about 20 minutes I found my cell phone and pushed the camera button. Instantly, a calendar appeared. Why do I even have the thing?

I made my way to the closet in the study and eventually came out with our real camera. The one with the low battery. I snapped about four photos. Didn’t want to waste the battery. Over a period of about an hour, that butterfly had a big set of Monarch wings. They weren’t moving though. The thing just stayed put for a good while.

The critter finally climbed to the stick I had propped up next to the bare milkweed plant. I waited as long as I cared to, before grabbing the stick and walking it outside. By the way, it was a girl. I could tell by the two dots on its wings. It didn’t have any. And the veins on the wings were wide… as veins go. Those characteristics are those of a female. That and the large breasts.

The butterfly flitted to one of the shrubs in the flowerbed. I sat on the ground to get some better pictures, when, in a nano-second that girl left the plant and flew right over my head. It took me a couple of minutes to twist, grab and fight my way up off the ground. By that time, there was nothing to see. I walked all around the house. Walked over to the neighbor’s house. Nothing. I got no gratitude from that selfish butterfly. No closure. You got closure, but all I got was heartache.

That night, Kay called, and I told her the butterfly story. She about cried. She had missed witnessing her pet’s journey into adulthood. Now she wants another caterpillar. And, I want nothing to do with it.

I went on a little too long with the butterfly story, so we’ve just got time for closure on one other story. Let’s go with the roof-leak. This is the one where I told the  story about almost falling off the roof. I was originally on the roof trying to find a leak that was making the ceiling wet in the bedroom. – The troubles in my life just keep comin’.

Well, after crawling all over the higher part of the house, I found nothing that looked leakable. Suddenly I remembered an infomercial. The one about the black spray paint that seals leaks. They supposedly use it on the bed of pickups. Like I believe that. I went to Home Depot and bought a can of something pretty much like that stuff. Except, they didn’t offer me an extra can for the mere cost of shipping.

I ended up spraying the flange on the fireplace smokestack. Then I sprayed everything that was connected to something else. Of course, I didn’t clean the metal or replace the old caulk.  The last thing I wanted to do was turn the process into a big job.

Bottom line, it rained like a bad dog last week for about thirty minutes. Afterwards, I checked the ceiling in the master bedroom. That thing was dry as a horn-toad’s armpit.

I feel so accomplished; so good about what I’d done. However, I’m going to feel even better if the ceiling remains dry after the next rain. The last time was probably just a fluke. I’ve been hurt way too many times by a positive attitude.

So, that’s it. You’ve had both butterfly and roof closures. That ouhtta kill two-thirds of all the e-mails I’ve received about not finishing stuff I start. With that in mind, you’re now getting closure on this article. Do you feel it? Feels good doesn’t it? Anybody feeling it? Well, maybe next time.

end
mark@rooftopwriter.com

Origins of names

Origins of Rahab the Harlot's name... and others.

People of my generation have the least weird names. My siblings’ names are Lynda, Larry, Susan, Dennis, Jill and Alan. In school, my friends’ names were Johnny, Tommy, Jimmy, David, and Skipper. Skipper was as weird a name as you’d run across. And, get this, he was a Skipper before “Gilligan’s Island” ever aired.

Today’s children are named after seasons, states, cities, planets, insects, rare flowers, vegetables, and computer parts. A bunch have made-up names. “Machienzel?”

The few normal-named kids have weird name spellings. Chari for Sherry. Dafydd for David and Jarvyn for Ronald. Anything to make life miserable for school teachers.

That being said, the worst names in the history of mankind were those that were conjured up during ancient times. “Rahab the Harlot” comes to mind. Some of you may know that Rahab received notoriety as a result of Joshua sending two guys to spy out the city of Jericho. For a reason that was not made clear in scripture, the two men went straight to the business establishment of Rahab the Harlot. The business was actually owned by her husband, Peleg the Pimp. (A joke!) I assume the spies were looking for Rahab the Shoe Doctor, but got the Jerichoian spelling of “Shoe Doctor” and “Harlot” mixed up.

There were many other Biblical personalities named after their trade. Let’s see, Simon the Tanner comes to mind. What did they call Simon before he worked in leather? Simon the Carrot Hater? Simon the Clod Thrower?

If you go farther back, you’ll find Ishmael. He was prophesied to become “a wild ass of a man.” Gen 16: 12 (RSV) I’ll bet he got into a lot of fights at school. --  “Hey, Ishmael the Wild Ass! Where’s your brother Jack?” Kids can be so cruel.

Occasionally, names would get a bit complicated. Who can forget Jonah in the Whale? People would come up to him and say, “Hey, look, it’s Jonah in the Whale! I’ll bet he got tired of correcting people. “No, I’m Jonah in the Big Fish. A whale can’t swallow a man, because it’s throat is too narrow, you jackass!” – “Wait a minute. You must mistake me for Ishmael’s brother.”

In Sunday school, we used to sing about Zacchaeus the Wee Little Man. What a horrible name. They could’ve called him “Little Man” or “Short Guy.” But, “Wee Little Man” is just piling on. By the way, Zacchaeus was the tax collector who climbed a sycamore tree so he could see Jesus coming down the street. The entire story is told in Luke 19, or you can just sing the song. “Zacchaeus was a wee little man. A wee little man was he. He climbed up in a…”Naw, go ahead and read the account.

Can you imagine wearing the name James the Lesser? There was no way you were meant to excel with a name like that. From what I read, he was named The Lesser so that during conversation, people wouldn’t mistake him for James the son of Zebedee, who was consider greater than the other James. That’s just cruel.

Eventually, someone invented last names. I believe the first guy using a last name was Phillip Hunter. He was a hunter by profession. (Duh!) But, his son, Josh, wasn’t a hunter. Hated hunting. Still, Phil told people to refer to his son as Josh Hunter. The new system caught on like Double Stuff Oreo’s.

Today, if you’re last name is “Smith”, somewhere down the line, one of your grandpas’ was a blacksmith. I understand that Kroger is a derivative of the German name for “host.” Apparently, back in the day, a host actually charged people for what they ate. My Grandmother Hayter’s maiden name was Picklesiemer. One of her grandpas used to catch and pickle siemers. The name “Kellogg” referred to a killer of hogs. At breakfast time, you need to just put that one out of your mind.

The name “Hayter” goes back to a time when names referred to your address. Remember Robin of Locksley? Well, the earliest of my line of grandpas lived in Scotland atop a high hill. He was Reginald of the High Hill. Or Reginald Hayter. Had he made barrel hoops while living on the high hill, my last name would be Hayterhooper. How cool is that?

Names are crazy things. Crazy things intended for identification, not characterization. While I feel a smidgen of pride in being a member of The Hayter Clan, I had nothing to do with the selection process. Didn’t even have a vote. I feel it was in God’s hands.

Faith tells me that it was the same with the story of Rahab the Harlot. I don’t mean to get all religious on you, but in Matthew 1, the lineage of Jesus is listed through the names of His male ancestors. That’s the way it was done. However, there were three women who broke the mold and made the list. They were Mary the Mother of Jesus, Ruth the Moabite, and Rahab the Harlot… who happened to be the great, great grandmother of King David, and the multi-great grandmother of Jesus the Christ.

I realize this part is a fairy tale to many, but it’s fascinating to me, and “I’m the one driving this team of mules.” -- That’s what Daddy used to say before we went on vacation. “Everybody get in the car. I’m driving this team of mules!”

If Dad had been the first in our clan, my name would probably be Mark Muleman. I could just hear Coach Stevens, my football coach. “Muleman, you jack ass! What were you doing on that play?” Everyone would laugh at the pun. -- Like I’d never heard it before. – Aren’t names crazy? – Next time.

End
mark@rooftopwriter.com

Monarch butterfly

“Kay’s new pet” 

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I don’t care to have a pet. Pet owning carries with it responsibility. I don’t like responsibility any more than I like a challenge. Those are two words you toss around at a job interview, not in real life.

Kay would enjoy the challenge and responsibility of owning a pet… say a dog.  And, there is little doubt that she’d be the best dog owner on the planet, next to Bob Barker. Fortunately, Kay honors my wish to own no animals. And, she will honor that up until the moment of my passing. I have every confidence that at my funeral Kay will be carrying a purse with a Yorkie in it. -- And I’m good with that.

However, until that day, I hoped to remain petless. So, you can imagine the shock I had last week when Kay yelled for me to come to the kitchen to see her new pet. She so much wanted to surprise me, knowing that I’m one of 18 people on the planet who do not enjoy surprises. I need time to prepare for stuff. Good? Bad? It doesn’t matter. Just give me a moment. A couple of days, maybe.

I didn’t hurry to the kitchen. I viewed the surprise with as much enthusiasm as I would news that there was a puddle under the fridge. When I saw Kay, she was looking over the sink at a couple of plants she had set on the windowsill. Now my dread was on the wane.

Kay pointed at one of the leaves and told me to lean over and take a look at “him”. All right. Kay had apparently adopted a pot plant for a pet. And it was a male plant. Instantly I recalled the oath I took. -- In sickness and insanity. – Yes, I would play along with her little charade.

“He’s right there on the leaf. See?” Sure enough. There he was. A worm. A little worm. I assured Kay that I was cool with her raising a worm as a pet, as long as it was an outdoor pet. Kay informed me that it wasn’t a worm. It was a caterpillar. An indoor caterpillar.

Okay, I’ll give you the short version. -- The plants in the window were milkweeds. Kay’s friend Shannon had given ‘em to her so she could eventually plant them in the yard to attract monarch butterflies.

Monarch butterflies seem to be in a bad way. The numbers are way down, and Kay wanted to join Shannon in an attempt to increase the population of the critters. Turns out one of the plants Kay brought home already had a tiny caterpillar on it. And there it was eating the milkweed before it could even take root.

That was a week or so back. Now, after eating every last bit of milkweed, the caterpillar is huge. (Two inches is huge in caterpillar length. Same with snakes.) Kay moved the remaining bare plant stems to a table in the dining room and put one of our collapsible, finely-meshed clothes baskets over it. Before you showed up, I noticed that big worm had climbed to the roof of the basket. That’s where you go after eating everything in the house.

The caterpillar will soon make a silk wrote to suspend itself  from its perch. Next stage will be the cocoon or chrysalis. About two weeks from now we should find a butterfly in that basket. And, I’ve just got to tell you, I’m going to be as excited as Kay when it happens. I’m not saying this hasn’t been a challenge. That caterpillar has pooped milkweed droppings all over the place. And, it’s been no easy task replenishing the milkweed.

Do you know who sells milkweed? China. I suppose. Shannon’s got some, but her supply has dwindled considerably. Those bubbas do nothing but eat and defecate. And, if you put ‘em on any other plant but milkweed, they’ll die. They only eat milkweed.

Milkweed? What’s the draw? Pandas live on bamboo and koalas eat only eucalyptus. Do you know why Pandas and Koalas are among the endangered species? They’re picky eaters!  Do you know why there are so many goats in this world? They’ll eat anything. Phonebooks, distributor caps, recyclable plastic bottles… a steering wheel if they can find one.

If Monarch caterpillars would just try something else, we could stop all this milkweed nonsense. Loco weed, rosebushes, ferns, clover, pine cones, oak bark… We wouldn’t have to worry about how few butterflies show up in Mexico this October, if only Monarchs would try eating a variety of food.

Those bubbas have been migrating back and forth from Canada and Mexico living only on milkweed. Don’t get me wrong, the adult butterfly gets stuff out of all kinds of flower blooms, but the female will only lay eggs on milkweed. One egg per plant, so the little baby caterpillar will have plenty to eat when it hatches. Remember the two things they do exclusively? Do you?

So, between now and fall, we need to attract more Monarchs to our yards. By “we” and “our” I’m referring to you. One of you needs to start a Monarch Butterfly Club. I would, but it’s too much of a challenge. However, if you’ll start a club, I’ll make a meeting or two. Just don’t make me responsible for anything.

I will tell you this, as soon as Kay’s project takes off, we’re not going to have indoor caterpillar pets. All the milkweed is going to be in the yard. They can eat and relieve themselves all they want out there. But, in the kitchen over the sink? – Repeat after me – “In sickness and insanity.”

12 days after Chrysalis stage

End
mark@rooftopwriter.com

Gutter saver

Rooftop Near-disaster

We're sitting on the top part. 

ROOFTOP – I realize the attendance up here is a bit less than usual. I imagine some of our fellow roofsitters bailed when they realized we were headed for the highest part of the roof.

We’re normally seated above the one-story part of the house. If the roof were to collapse where we usually sit, we would end up in a pile on the floor of the dining room. Some of you might land in the kitchen.

However, this evening we find ourselves on the roof above the second story part of the house. It’s a smaller area above the study and master bedroom.  Were the roof to collapse right now, some of us would end up in the master bedroom, with one or two of you landing in Kay’s bathtub. If you prefer the bedroom, best move a little more to the left.

Fortunately, the roof is not likely to collapse. We may well fall off this thing, but I doubt we’ll fall through it.  If you’ll look behind you, you’ll see the place where I nearly bought the proverbial farm. None of you were up here at that time, ‘cause nobody wanted to help me clean the gutter. I don’t believe in gutter guards. Don’t trust ‘em.

So, I was using my leaf blower when raindrops started hitting the metal roof. The drops were rather sparse, but each carried about a quart of water. No worry, I’m like a mountain goat… or one of those lizards with suction-cupped feet.

I only had about a foot of gutter to go when it happened. Some of you will recall the incident from an article I wrote called “Keister Krack.” The editor wisely changed it to “Tailbone Trauma.” Something like that.

 Regardless what it was called, my feet slid out from under me, causing me to land really hard on the part of the anatomy that serves as the dispatcher of all pain. It’s got a technical name. I think the Saxons called it “hellbone”, but the Normans changed it to “tailbone.”

My immediate worry had nothing to do with my fractured fanny. That’s because I didn’t remain in the fall-down place long enough to focus. I immediately started sliding past the edge of doom, directly to doom itself. Death would come as a result of me landing on the angled brick lining at the edge of the driveway. I figured my best bet would be to land on my rear, ‘cause it was already critical.

My last thought -- before it happened -- was that Kay was going to be really be ticked off once she came home. I hate to leave without being able to defend myself. During the slide, I had a firm grip on the leaf-blower. It took me forever to get the thing started, so I feared it might stop if I tossed it. Weird the thoughts you have before death.

So, my hands stayed with the leaf blower, while my legs were just going along for the ride ‘cause of all the pain my tailbone was sending them. All of a sudden I stopped sliding. Seems my left foot got trapped in the gutter. The gutter didn’t bend or break. It held on like grim death, and I loved it for it. I was saved by the very gutter I was cleaning. Is that not irony? -- No, I’m asking. Would you call that irony?

The second I realized I wasn’t going to die, every square inch of my body started throbbing. All the pain was radiating from my tailbone. It sent messages to my neck, my lungs, knees. pancreas… It took me about an hour and half to make my way off the roof. With each agonizing step, I thanked God for not letting me experience the one-second dismount.

Isn’t that fascinating?  We’re up here near the very spot where I had my near death experience. Keep in mind, I didn’t see a bright light. I saw Kay being really mad at me.  – So,  are there any questions? – Right. What are we doing up here? Yes, I realize I could’ve easily told this story at ground level.

To tell the truth, we didn’t come up here so I could tell the story. We came up here so I could find the source of a leak that is staining the ceiling in the bedroom. Kay thinks the caulked area around the chimney has a gap in it. I’ve looked, but can’t find one.

I’m getting ready to check the area around the eaves, but before doing so I wanted to share the story with you, because it may well be my last. (I always think the worst, because it’s impossible to get disappointed that way. You knew that.) – So, away with you all. Best you not see this. Or hear it. I’ve been told I scream like a girl. – I’ll give you a few minutes to clear the premises.

Coast is clear. -- Well, Father, it looks like it’s just You and me again. Please, realize that the last time it took my tailbone a year to completely heal. So, if I have to fall, I’d appreciate You letting me fall forward. And, if it’s not too much trouble, please, don’t let me overshoot the hedge. I might could crawl away from a hedge-fall.

Okay, let’s do this thing. -- Next time.  (By the way. The fact that you’re reading this is an indication that I survived to climb again. Life is good… until it’s not. Weird how that works.)

End

Mark@rooftopwriter.com