Damned Flat Roof

Ye damned roof,
as viewed from the bathroom window.
Or is it a dammed roof?

I hate flat roofs.  I like to work in concert with gravity, rather than against it.  A flat roof, or nearly flat roof, is a crime against physics.  The downhill flow of fluids is inevitable, so why tempt fate?  Yes, I know, if properly engineered and installed, a flat roof is just fine.  For a while...until it leaks...and they always do.

Perhaps my distaste for horizontal roofing is as much experiential as logical.  In my late teens, I was hired for a job where I was to perform surveys on flat roofs for a company that promised to provide a cost saving to the poor business owner who happened to have dripping ceilings.  Just as I was hired, a major contract was inked with a large plant in Tonawanda, NY, an hour away from where I lived.  But that would not be factor, since the job foreman would be driving, and I could snooze as necessary on the way.

Not so.  Ted, the foreman and only other crew member, took it upon himself to save my wretched soul from all the mistakes he had made, and from all those I would obviously make unless I followed his advice.  So we travelled back and forth with a constant drone of morality lessons.  And because he was averse to driving on the Thomas E. Dewey Thruway, we had the pleasure of 90 minutes or more of companionship on Routes 33 or 31 instead of the normal hour.  Both ways.

I never asked the question.  I was too kind, I suppose.  But I had to wonder...If you know everything that I will need to live a successful life, why is it that you're messing around in the summer sun on nearly melting industrial roofs with a kid who is obviously destined for no good?

The company provided these little capacitance measuring machines that we secured to wheeled carts. The needle would swing along the scaled arc, detecting the moisture content within the tar and felt below.  Then we'd jot the result onto the clipboard and move a few feet to the next site for another reading.  But before we took any readings, Ted insisted that we measure and paint a spot at 3 foot intervals to make sure we provided an accurate grid for our measurements.  

The roofs we measured would easily hold a regulation football field.  And the Tonawanda job also provided close proximity to a metal foundry (and a sentence with plural redundancies in the same sentence!).  So we got to enjoy soot falling upon us as we moved across the roof not once, but twice.  Ted preferred this over my suggestion that we get a long rope, paint it once at the correct intervals, and then move the rope to give us our reference points.    And because of the extra marking time, we needed to make additional journeys to Tonawanda to complete the job.  I suspect Ted was also paid on an hourly basis.

The pay was slightly more than minimum wage, which was good for me at the time, so I might have toughed it out for the summer, even with the cruel and unusual punishment.  But after a number of jobs, all on roofs within spitting distance of Lake Erie, I realized that the meters really did not do a good job of determining the water in the roof.  "You need to have the computer analyze the data," said the boss, but I could not see how any computer application of logic could make real sense out of the mostly random measurements I was taking.  Particularly after I noted that the crushed stone usually found on these roofs was not always distributed evenly, and distance from the tarred surface made the readings vary significantly.

So I quit.  This action required a long discussion with my father regarding the value of work and persistence, but after hearing all the whining, he finally acquiesced when I told him that it was extremely questionable that the service we provided had any value.  And, of course, I added quickly that I did not want to be involved with an organization that was fleecing its customers.  I noted for later consideration that moral and ethical grounds had carried much more weight with my father than any degree of personal discomfort.

The experience instilled a deep and reasonable loathing of flat roofs.  So when I heard that a section of roof in Indiana was suspected of leaking, I snarled knowingly, "Damned flat roof."

Really?
You can't be serious.

Thankfully, Scott was on the scene.  He assessed the situation, sent pictures, and plotted strategy.  And he found a big hole.  Unfortunately, what first appeared to be the culprit turned out to be a very unconventional drain design.  

Who drains a roof with a hole in the middle when it would have been just as easy to build the roof with an outside drain?  The guy must have been a desert dweller.

The one true path.

Scott also determined that the bulk of the water ending up on the flat roof actually came from the normally pitched roof on the story above.  The downspout from that level dumped all the water from a large rain collection area onto the flat roof where it could really make a difference should anything be the least bit leaky.

So he configured a new path for the major flow that took the bulk of the water to the ground without the scenic and circuitous path across the flat roof and into the mysterious hole-drain.

Then the educational future of America called, and Scott was not able to do anything more.  Lucky me!  I would be able to contribute to the project.  

The bundle.

Unwilling (Oh, all right. "Unable.") to access the roof via the tiny bathroom window as Scott had done, a ladder was procured to provide an elevating experience.  I took my little bundle of tools up with me, and was nearly overwhelmed by a dose of flat roof revulsion.  But I fought down the panic and began to go about my business.  At least I didn't have to paint a grid.

Scott's new ladder.

The bottom line?  I replaced a vent cover that shouldn't need to be there at all, and went with a nautical theme by turning the vents 180 so no water could possibly enter that way.  Did I mention that the ceiling light in the bathroom below is not used because the globe fills up with water?  My first inclination was goldfish, but that solution was not met with the proper enthusiasm.  So I sought additional solutions.

Which meant applying Oobleck.  You know, that wonderful stuff manufactured by Magicians of Didd that sticks to everything and seems to multiply itself as it does so.  It has been rebranded as Leak Stopper, and the color has been changed, but it is clearly Oobleck.

I gooped up a seam and a small slice in the roof and anything anywhere that looked suspiciously like a possible water entry point.  You are always guessing when trying to stop leaks.  So I applied the Oobleck to anything that looked remotely like a gap.  Gaps between my fingers, gaps in my clothing, and a few gaps on the roof.  I'm glad that I found some paint thinner in the basement. 

Declaring victory, I returned to the roof one more time to capture this image of my fine workmanship.

My eye beholds beauty.
Oobleckian beauty.
But the truth is that Scott's downspout diversion
probably makes more difference than anything I accomplished.

But that's not what I wanted to tell you about.

As I was stepping down the ladder for the final time and dreaming of well deserved beverages, something flashed across my view.  A bird?  A plane?  No...it was Superfrog!  And there I was, camera in hand.  Though he had not made an appointment, this guy had come for a portrait setting.

Faster than a speeding bullet.
Earlier...not at this moment.

The nearest tree was more than 10 feet away.  Although I'm sure he didn't fly, the leap he made was nearly as impressive as his sudden stop and adherence to the metal of the ladder.

Why, Hello!

I rarely go outdoors to see animals of any kind, so this was my first encounter with a tree frog.  What a cute little guy.

I know hunters who would kill to have camo this good.

I was thoroughly impressed by his staying power.  Unbelievable how well he could hang onto the brushed metal surface.  Clearly a miracle performed by this tiny Ladder Day Saint.

Humans?  Opposable thumbs?
Maybe so, but you gotta hand it to this little guy...
He's got gripping nailed.

He stayed long enough for our session, and then we both went off in search of rewards for our performances.

The Perils of Plumbing

In the summer of 2007, my friend Bob and I drove to my Adirondack Camp for a weekend of camaraderie and work. Mostly work.

Immediately upon arrival, Bob hopped out of the Jeep and flipped the breaker that turned on the pump for the well that sits halfway out the long driveway. He walked the rest of the way as I turned the vehicle around, positioning it so that it would be easy to transfer plumbing supplies to the house. He spied the big maple across the top of the shed as he walked in.

"Probably ought to take care of that too," he said, pointing out the damage.

On the shed, but menacing the new construction.

"Hurrmph," I grunted, signifying acknowledgement without agreement. There was plenty to do without adding fallen tree removal. We had come to the Adirondack abode to rectify heinous crimes against nature that were perpetrated by previous owners of the place. The washwater did not go where it should. So to become a bit less hypocritical about caring about the environment, we were there to reroute much of the plumbing under the house.

Actually, being there to do the job was Bob's fault. "You know you're never going to fix your plumbing mess unless you set aside a weekend and just do it." And to punctuate his assertion, he volunteered to help make things right. So this was the big weekend. I was not looking forward to the work, but I was looking forward to having the job done.

Tools of the amateur plumber.
And a rutabaga.

We spent the majority first 12-hour day scoping out the job, discussing the relative merits of different approaches, and buying materials. It was decided that the big supplementary pump I had brought along wasn't necessary after all, particularly after seeing how difficult it would be to install it under the place.

When you are plumbing, gravity is your friend. So even though it was a long run down to the septic system, we decided to put our faith in friendship. You'd never know by looking at it, but the house is really a remodeled trailer with the superstructure and axle underneath to prove it. Crawling around under the structure, I took a few pictures to help our scholarly discussions.

Plumbing as you never want to see it.

The next day, we whacked and hacked, drilled and filled, glued and screwed. Eight of my 12 hours were spent in the tiny, dirty, disgusting crawl space underneath. To cover the dirt so that I wasn't kicking up any more dust than I had to, I spread out an old tarp that had been sitting in the garage. About 20 feet in, I realized that I was not the only one thinking that the tarp was a good idea. And the ants weren't particularly happy that I had disrupted their nest.

Only slightly better than having them in your pants.

Just before sunset, I emerged from my dungeon, finally finished with all the cutting and fitting and, in particular, the gluing. In the confined space, there were more than enough fumes for one day, mask or not.

Testing the work found no leaks. Hallelujah! Finally out from under, a celebration was definitely in order.

A small portion of the magnificent plumbing job.
Get off my back about the insulation!

The next day, we gathered our stuff together early and got ready to leave. It was Father's Day and we had families to return to. While packing the car, I remembered the tree.

Soon the ladder was up and I was up on the shed roof, wet from the previous night's rain. My trusty bow-saw was going to dispatch the offending limbs and we'd be on our way. But the tree was bigger and heavier and wetter that I realized, and it soon became apparent that my little handsaw was really not up to the task. Just then, Pete showed up from next door.

"You need the chainsaw!" he informed me. "Want me to go get it?"

I've read about hypothermia victims. It's not usually one bad decision that kills them, but a series of them. Saying yes at this point was well down the list of bad decisions. I was in a hurry to get up on a wet metal roof with an unsecured tree so that I could cut limbs with an unfamiliar chainsaw (are you counting with me?). And of course, the main thing that should have tipped me off that something was wrong: I listened to Pete.

The first two limbs came off pretty easily. Bob pulled on the rope we had tied to the biggest limb to keep it from falling on the new roof on the newly rebuilt garage right next to the shed. The third and last limb kept binding the saw, so I moved to a position on the peak where I could change the angle of the cut.

The chainsaw labored a bit, and suddenly, it cut through.

At that moment, the trunk sprung up and away, no longer balanced by the weight of the limbs that had held it flat against the roof. It struck me full in the chest, and I was shoved backward toward the edge of the slippery roof with a running chainsaw in my hand.

Immediately, I knew there was no way I could remain on the roof. As I staggered backward from the blow, I flung the chainsaw as far as I could. If it wasn't so dangerous, I'm sure this would be an Olympic event. The combination of motor sports and discus has real mass-market appeal. The chainsaw airborne, and still moving rapidly down the wet metal, I had two more steps before the edge. Stopping was out of the question, but launching the chainsaw turned me around, facing downhill, so I could at least plan my dismount. Add gymnastics to the new Olympic sport.

The ladder was where I left it, slightly left of my current line of travel.  A brief thought of trying to grab it was discounted as something that would only work in a Keystone Cops episode.  One step left.

Thinking that some lateral movement would be good to get as far away from the pursuing trunk as possible, and also help me roll upon landing, I jumped.

Perhaps I didn't really believe that I was about to die. Or maybe that business about having your life pass before your eyes is a bunch of bunk. All I know is that I only had one thought in my head as I sailed off the roof. "This is REALLY gonna hurt."

Just lovely.

I hadn't realized how pretty the delicate flower of Trifolium repens can be. You walk over the little white flowers of the clover plant and never really give them any notice until you are lying with your head among them looking for anything to divert your attention from the pain in every muscle and joint in your legs and back as you gasp to regain the breath you lost on impact..

Shortly, Bob asked, "Should I call the ambulance?"  Much later, he admitted that he really had not wanted to come around to my side of the shed to see what had happened.

"Not yet," I replied, in a perfectly calm manner that masked the pain. Well, maybe not perfectly calm. I was correct about how much the leap was going to hurt; but miraculously, I was soon able to climb into a chair and take stock. Lots of pain, sure, but everything seemed functional.

Sitting there, not ready to move, I conducted a review of the event. I began to realize just how lucky I was. I was bruised but unbroken after violating every relevant safety rule. I could have fallen awkwardly and landed in a multitude of disastrous ways. Even with a decent landing, I could have broken several different bones or minor structural details like my spinal column. The tree could have followed me down and crushed me instead of getting wedged between the stump and another tree. And I don't even want to think about the chainsaw.

The trunk, sans limbs, thankfully wedged at the base between trees,
unable to follow me down.

Providence had protected a fool. However, the Darwin Awards being an indication that His patience with fools is not infinite, I realized I needed to mend my ways. So extending my not-quite-post-mortem, I began to think about other close calls, and realized that there was a common thread in all of them. I was in a hurry.

I used to think that any elderly person I might pass on the highway was not in a hurry because he was old. Maybe that is not the case. Maybe he is old because he is not in a hurry.

Since my "3-Meter Roof Dismount and Chainsaw Fling," I have been keenly aware of just how much I tend to be in a hurry. Fidgeting in line, impatient in traffic, rushing to get things done...It's a wonder I've lived this long. But there is another key factor in this particular mishap. And that's plumbing. PVC cement, to be exact, is the real culprit in my poor decision-making. And it's all right there on the label.

"May cause irritation to eyes, skin, and nose, throat, and respiratory tract. May cause coughing, sore throat, difficulty breathing, headache, dizziness, nausea. Long term repeated overexposures to solvents may cause damage to the brain, nervous system, reproductive system, respiratory system, mucous membranes, liver, and kidneys."

Hmmm...overexposure to solvents may cause damage to the brain... It all falls together now, doesn't it? Right down to the point that I told Bob to hold a rope instead of a video camera.  A missed opportunity due to poor decisions by a damaged brain. Viral video for sure!