Easter day was lovely, with the Child and Godchild hunting Easter eggs in a light snow. Easter Monday, I was awakened by the doorbell--oh, Lord, the roofer! I had forgotten about the roofer. After numerous candidates declined the job (one declared morosely that he would "need a ladder for that"), this company had agreed to patch the Roof Valley of Death over the eternally leaky laundry room. About a year ago, we paid more than $900 for another roofer to have his guy slap tar around up there; it leaked anyway. (He had been candid in his refusal to guarantee the job.) This time, two guys spent hours laying down shingles, flashing, and flexible underlayer stuff; every time I spied on them from the third-floor dormer window, they were furrowing their brows in concentration and lining things up carefully. Attaboys! This roofer wanted even more than the last one, and wouldn't guarantee the job, either, but is "98% sure" that it will work.
We'll see Thursday, if it rains. If there's no drippage, the next step will be to repair the two holes in the sheetrock ceiling and plaster the other damaged bits. But I confess that I will never fully trust the Valley of Death again. Can we put a moisture-sensing device or DripCam up there before we seal it up? It could double as a SquirrelCam, since the Valley of Death is also Bagel's chief entry point into the cavity walls. Or we could patch with acrylic instead of sheetrock to make a wildlife-viewing window, like an aquarium.
Whenever geologic time crawls forward and we finally repair one of our long-standing eyesores, it's the same--I take awhile to get used to a bit of decency and normalcy in that spot, having gotten perversely adapted to the brokenness. Not to worry, however. Just as I was starting to relish the prospect of a laundry room without a drip basin and squirral-debris-filled holes...the toilet backed up, and neither plunger nor snake will it heed. It's always something, Cheddar.