Sunday, January 10, 2016

No Rhyme. No Reason.

Saturday night as I sat in my basement blue recliner, watching DVRs of Shameless from the marathon on Showtime, I heard an unmistakable noise. It was not The Pony, frolicking in a bath in the big triangle tub on the other end of the upstairs. It was not the phantom ceiling-walker that most often paces at 2:00 a.m. It was the sound of our new metal roof flapping in the gale winds bringing no snow.

"Hey! Our new tin is blowing away. Did you hear that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Turn down your TV. I hear the tin blowing around on the porch."

Farmer H clanked closed his La-Z-Boy and stumped through the kitchen and out on the porch. He was not gone long. I imagine he gave that tin a look like Chevy Chase gave the Grand Canyon in National Lampoon's Vacation. Before you could say, "Sweet Gummi Mary!" he had cracked back in the La-Z-Boy.

I heard it again. That warping metal flapping sound. Like a special effect used to simulate thunder in the movies.

"Hey! That tin is blowin' in the wind!"

"HM. That's just the ice maker dumping ice."

"I don't think so. Because it was clearly on the porch. Ten feet from my head. Not in the kitchen. I'm just telling you because I know the winds are high, and I saw those open boxes of tin blocking the side porch. If it's not going to hurt for our $7000 worth of tin to blow out into the back woods, fine. But I thought you might want to know. Since you can't hear..."

Farmer H clanked closed the La-Z-Boy again. Huffed at me. Snatched his sweatshirt from the newel post by the front door. Stumped back through the kitchen and out the door. He was gone almost 20 minutes. I was watching the clock. Just in case I had to go looking for him. It was not a fit night out for man nor beast. I didn't want Farmer H to lock himself out and freeze to death. Even The Pony, with his non-care of people, would not have wanted that.

Farmer H came back in, hung up his sweatshirt, and cracked back in the La-Z-Boy again. No mention of the new roof.

What kind of Farmer schedules a new roof put on in the middle of January, anyway? And what kind of roofers leave open cardboard packages of tin laying on a porch in full view of the road, and in full gust of the wind?

I think I may be dealing with more than 3 stooges.


Sioux said...

I bet you guys have some copper pipes that could be yanked out and sold, too. Tin. Maybe some copper. Perhaps some old shingles.

It's a treasure trove.

If you give me a discounted price on the next ticket I buy for your mansion tour, I promise not to lead a caravan to your estate.

Refuse, and I will have hordes of third graders crawling all over your property. Taking eggs out of Sweet, Sweet Juno's mouth. Gobbling up every Little Debbie and every Cosmic Brownie that you thought was safe in the cupboards. Cranking back the Lazy-Boy over and over, until it breaks down from overuse.

What say you?

Hillbilly Mom said...


Maybe we can barter something to reduce your tour price...

Kathy's Klothesline said...

May he wants the tin to blow away, not his fault and the roofers will have to replace it, then he can salvage those pieces from the woods and build a tin shed ......

Hillbilly Mom said...

OH! You're giving Farmer H too much credit for being a conniver. Men are simple. He just didn't want to soil his big ol' bear paws moving the tin. Or put something on over his lounging tighty-whities.