Shake, Rattle, and Roof

Currently, it sounds like a herd of bighorn sheep with claw hammers are wreaking havoc above me. The roofers arrived at about 6:50am, and have been destroying the cheap roof (circa 1991) ever since. They’ve already found dry rot – we’re not surprised – and have explained that the way this roof was made, with skip under plywood (if I’m understanding this - I may need to correct it later in an erratum…) this house was more or less designed to rot from condensation in the summer. But so far, it hasn’t. They’ll put in ridge-line venting, but it won’t be able to vent – but this is something D. and the foreman, Nate, have discussed on my phone, while I orchestrated N. driving S. to school last minute. 

My biggest worry is that they not drop something on the beehive, and that the chickens stay as they have, in the other corner of the yard and well away from the open gate, until I leave for the day and pen them in. They will be loud and unhappy all day, so I am delaying that penning for a bit. I do wish I could stay home all day but I’m on the Children’s Desk at noon. 

The hammering, huge thumps, buzz of  blowers, and whine of saws continues, along with shouts in Spanish. I used my Spanish yesterday at the garage sale and this morning, too, although most of the roofing team speaks English better than I do Spanish, I suspect. This is most nerve-wracking for D., who has the territorial instincts of a Doberman, and N.’s cat, Sif, who is miserable. Moira, on the other hand, is keeping her post by the back sliding glass door, where she daily watches for – and sometimes stares down – the little field mouse that hides in the bale of straw we use for the chicken coop. Tango has resigned himself to misery in N.’s room. Between Saturday’s hauling of everything down for the attic and sorting for the garage sale, the hustle and bustle of the sale itself, and now this (bighorn sheep with power tools all over the roof), I think it would take puppy Prozac to cheer him up. On top of all that, he’d been taken to the pet store for a bath Saturday. Tough weekend for Mr. T. But he does smell better. 

I am writing because it’s either this, or nervously houseclean, or pace anxiously in the back yard near the bees. I’ll do the other things next. Writing first. Not real concentration, because I’m nervous too, but at least reportage of some kind.

Here's what's happening as of 20 minutes ago:

And here's what it looked like - to me, anyway - at around 7:30. I told D. significant, "They're digging in the wrong place!" which did make him smile, at least. Poor stressed-out man.