Zen and the Art of Roofing

“Imagine,”  he says, “you’re a raindrop.”

This is the essence of shingling. Imagine you are water wanting to get inside the invitingly warm, dry dwelling. Now, you are the inhabitant ; prevent the raindrop from getting inside. Here is the hammer. Here are the nails. Here are the burning hot asphalt shingles. Here too,  are the neighbourhood men unwilling to watch your mother and you on the roof unsupervised.

“You needn’t feel obligated,” you say, secretly wishing he might climb off the roof with his helpful hints and helpfulness. Why is help so hard? You so contrary? So difficult?

“I don’t,” he says, picking up a hammer, “but I know your mother will bake me a pie.”

So together you measure and hammer and debate which pie might be your mother’s  blue ribbon specialty. He orders a rhubarb and strawberry (smart man, it’s in season) and with each row completed, you’re more grateful he stayed.

When another neighbour offers to help he says , “Nah, we’re doing fine.”

“Oh sure,” you tease, “ You just don’t want to share your pie.”

So  the second neighbour climbs the ladder and now there are four; the three of you hammering, measuring, being a raindrop- while your mother cuts the ends- until, just before the sky turn a violent purple and threatens a storm, you are done.

But the neighbours are not. After dinner yet another neighbour stops by with his toddling son shyly proffering a bottle of homemade wine for the hardworking women and still later there are free drinks in the coffee shop.

Today you learned to shingle a roof.
Today you learned you are a raindrop.