North to Alaska

Up on the housetop with good saint???

Did you ever wonder who would go up on the housetop in the cold of winter? Saint Nick or no Saint Nick? Well it is a strange tale that I have to tell but here goes.

Friday a week ago we had a bumper crop of snow—four and a half feet over three days. That is about up to most people’s chest. And with another 16 to 32 inches predicted for the night, it was time to take serious stock of the matter. Four and a half plus two and a half equals 7. Now few of us are seven feet tall so that seemed to call for drastic measures. It was not just a case of getting out the front door but a matter of worrying about all that snow on the roof. One never wants to retire for the night in a nice warm bed only to wake up in a start to find one’s self in a cold, snow-filled bed. So I decided to venture up on the roof to see what could be done. After all Ben’s advice was an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. As I carefully surveyed the situation, I came to a quick conclusion. Since there was a substantial amount of snow on the roof and since a good portion of what was there had already morphed into ice, I decided to forget the ladder and look for a safer route to our roof. Plan B was to go upstairs, open the bathroom window and check out that pathway. Well that pathway was almost up to window level. By way of explanation it should be noted that the roofline begins about sink level. So if I could simply stick a shovel through the window and push some of the snow out of the way, I could actually make it to the rooftop without being waist deep in snow. Since I would be starting in the middle of the snow bank instead of the edge of it, the job would be much harder since I would be proceeding from the inside out. From the safety factor Plan B seemed to be a far superior plan. So Plan B it was.

I carried a snow shovel and a small spading shovel upstairs and then dressed warmly for what I saw was going to be a long ordeal. I pushed open the window and then slid some of the snow away from the window. After a few minutes I had cleared a small area directly in front of the window and I eased myself onto the rooftop. There was a coat of ice on the shingles and the footing was somewhat iffy but otherwise everything seemed to be in order. If I were careful I would not go careening over the edge of my own private little ski jump sans skis. I slowly worked my way down to about two feet from the edge where I began to skid shovel after shovel of snow over the abyss. I then retreated back to the staring point where I widened the pig trail by another foot. There were several tons of snow on the roof but pushing it was going to be a lot easier than lifting it. Plan B looked like a sure winner.

My wife is a wonderful soul mate. She worries about me a lot. In fact she worries about a lot of people a lot. But she is always there to lend a helping hand. Some people even think of her as the second coming of Mother Teresa. I sometimes think of her as my own “Saint Teresa.” Moving several tons of snow is no easy task and soon my saintly spouse could contain herself no longer. I heard a noise and looked around. She was behind me on the roof with a snow shovel in hand. There we were—just the two of us--”Saint Teresa” and me. Admittedly she was not Saint Nick but that guy is only around during the Christmas season and that time had come and gone several weeks ago. Of course Nick has had a lot of experience dealing with snow. On the other hand “Saint Teresa” has had a lot of experience dealing with me.

After several hours of pushing snow around every bone in my body ached. My feet were cold and my clothes were wet and cold. The roof was basically cleared. It was well past time to step back inside our cozy house. I was ready to crawl back inside the bathroom window. However, there was a slight problem.

The last person out on the roof had accidentally pushed the window completely shut. It was shut all the way. It was really shut! It was shut so well that it was locked!!! “Saint Teresa” and I were locked outside on the roof. “There is no need to panic,” I said confidently. I confidently gripped the lip of the window and pushed. If you have watched any TV at all, you know that it only takes minimum force to force open a locked door or window. When minimum force did not work, I resorted to maximum force. The window was still locked securely. I had the impression that we need never worry about burglars. But burglars were not an issue at the time. The fact was that we were locked out on our roof. To be certain there was a short utility ladder on the roof but it was far too short to reach the deck. We were stranded.

But at least we had options. Several people were known to walk our street. Maybe one would come by. On the other had what kind of person would be out walking with a snowstorm likely to blow in any second. Maybe our neighbor across the street would come out for a smoke. She could not see us but maybe she could hear us. But only if she were on her deck and we had no way of knowing if she were there or not. She could have chosen today of all days to quit smoking. We could shout until we lost our voices and it could be all for naught. We were stranded. We could always break a window as a last resort. Assuming that it was breakable. However, where we live it can take weeks and weeks to get a replacement so that would be the last resort, assuming that it was breakable. As I peered over the front and back edges, I realized that even if I could land in the snow bank, it would probably break one or both of my legs if I tried to jump off. And I would still have to crawl back inside to call 911 to rescue my wife. The situation was becoming more dire by the moment.

There was always the Martin Luther approach. “Save me Saint Anne and I will become a priest.” Ok. I did not think we were that desperate just yet. But that did give me an idea. Surely there had to be a saint for people stranded on a roof. Now if I could just think of one. Saint Elsewhere. No! No! That is a hospital. Who else. Saint Bernard? Is he a saint or a dog or both? St. Christopher? Isn’t he the patron saint of travelers? Does getting stranded on a roof constitute travel? After a moment of thought, I remembered that the Church had defriended or desainted him some years ago? Saint Jude? Wasn’t he the saint of hopeless causes? Was our situation that hopeless?

Several years ago I remember seeing an ad about how to deal with all but impossible situations—such as how to jump from one moving train to another. There had to be an easy way to escape from a rooftop. But alas I had not bought that book! We were stranded without a cell phone or duct tape. We were really stranded.

Then it hit me. We could take the utility ladder and have “Saint Teresa” hold the top end while I grabbed the bottom rung and eased myself over the edge. If she could hold her end for five seconds, I could drop safely to the ground. I asked her, “Can you hold your end for five seconds”? She smiled and replied “sure!” If you can’t trust “Saint Teresa,” who can you trust? I grabbed the bottom rung and went off the edge. I landed with no broken bones and went upstairs to unlock that darn window.