On Being Butch

Two days of hurricane force winds and heavy rain, pounded our home on the shores of the Annapolis Basin. The new windows recently installed were battered and breathed with the wind but, fortunately, remained secure. And apart from three toppled Muskoka chairs and canoe, a torn flag and a missing garbage container lid, the only potentially serious damage to our home was two tiles blown off the turret roof peak. 

Now being a man of many talents, I determined that I could easily repair the roof tiles by putting up our extension ladder and reaching over from one of the top rungs. With the aid of John, the ladder was erected to its maximum height. I collected a hammer from the basement, and some roofing nails that I had earlier located in a bag on the basement shelf. I put hammer into my belt, the nails into a waist satchel and the two tiles, which had been retrieved from quite different locations, into a cloth bag. Looking the part, I then started the long climb, much to the chagrin of John who stood looking up as if it might be my final ascent into heaven.

Now no fool am I, though I may appear to be one from time to time. As I arrived at what I assessed to be my maximum safe mount, reached unsteadily as far as I dared, and felt the ladder wobble just a little, I closed my eyes, inhaled and quickly descended. Without stopping, I walked into the house, went directly to the nearest telephone and called a young contractor who had recently done some work in our house. John was visibly relieved but dared not utter “I told you so”. 

Shortly afterwards, the contractor stopped by on his way to another job and in less than five minutes he had the job done. And a good thing too, as the rains would soon start again.

Not to let my macho imagine settle too long in the mire, I got out the chainsaw and cleared some branches and limbs off several of the trees on our property line. A job well done. My hardy image almost in tact.