Making A Living As A Writer

This will be have to be brief.  The roofers are in full swing, trying to get done in time to drive home tonight, although right now a storm is holding us up. One or two have to go as far as Lincoln. The job has turned out far more fiddly than expected, with a lot of carefully angled pieces being cut to cover the roof of the dormer.

There were some pretty sore heads at the start of the day, and the front yard looked like a frat house on a Sunday morning.  But once they’d shaken off the hangovers, they got going and worked right through the heat of the day. I don’t even want to think about what it was like up there. 93 degree heat, 60 degree slope, facing the sun, handling eight-foot long sheets of tin; but copious amounts of chilled water and pop kept the lads going. From time to time, as a section was completed, beer was called for.

By sundown, the south side was done, and they’d made a start on the north. Matt and Kitty showed up with a tray of steaks, and we all relaxed around a fire. One of the guys drove up top to call a girl-friend, and on the way back killed a four-foot rattler. It’s been skinned, and somebody has it in his cool-box. Plans to take it home and eat it. 

Inside, the house looks as though… well, as though a gang of roofers have been sleeping over. People have lost socks, shoes, one wallet, and several tools. Somebody left the bathroom light on all night and several thousand insects swarmed in through the screen.

Up on the hill I had another quiet night. When I turned in, about ten thirty, the sky was clear, there was no moon, and the Milky Way was like a long streak of cloud, stretching from horizon to horizon. I was disturbed once, by some crittur breathing heavily just outside the tent. I saw it off with an all-purpose Anglo-Saxon phrase, suggesting that it seek fresh pastures.

With luck, and a following wind, this job should be done by tonight.