Invasion, Occupation

Admittedly, in the remotest sense possible. We did, after all, invite them to disturb the serenity of our late-summer days. The roof of our house needed replacing. They arrived at the unseemly hour of 7:30 a.m., arousing us from a restful sleep, after a late night. My husband was delighted to see them, I somewhat less so.

It's a male thing, after all, these kinds of physical endeavours. In this instance, a rather necessary enterprise.

The roof was not in dreadful shape, but it was time, after 17 years, to have it replaced. The shingles were not the best, being "original equipment"; builders tend to use the basic necessities in installing roofs atop newly-constructed houses, after all. And those we selected are a different breed altogether, with a 25-year warranty, and made not of traditional shingling material.

Aren't we the optimists, at 71-approaching-72 years of age? Still, it's something that had to be done, and we wanted something more than 15-years-serviceable, something that had a presence; the appearance of wood shingling. So there they were, the crew. Five men in total; young, athletic, fit, tanned. And ready to go. And go they most certainly did.

We're fortunate in that the day and succeeding days were forecast for clear skies; no rain in the forecast. Good for the roofers too. Except for the heat and humidity, with highs in the 30-degree celsius range, scant breeze. But they are a cheerful lot and hauled those shingling bundles as though they weighed nothing; sending them up the motorized ladder effortlessly.

From the house interior it sounded and felt like an alien invasion. The men treading around the roof, loosening the old shingles, pounding down the wrapped bunches of replacement shingles. Cutting out the old mushroom-shaped air intakes to be replaced by four-stage revolving ones to ensure sound ventilation. We could see the fleeting images of their shadows cast by the morning sun on the side of the house next door.

After having rid the roof of its former covering they proceeded. And in the process creating a far-distant thunder sound that we were certain would disturb our little dogs, but unaccountably, did not. Concerned about the effects of the heat my husband put out a patio umbrella over the wrought iron table and armchairs in the front patio. But the men, when they took their breaks, preferred to sit on the stone bench opposite the low stone garden wall; there too they sat.

And drank water from the hose, disdaining the fruit coolers and fruit juice that he had put out for them, in a plastic cooler chest with freezer inserts. When we were ready for our ravine walk, he informed them we'd be gone for an hour, and if anyone had to use the powder room, now was the time. As we exited the garage, one of the men hastened to remove a box to give us more egress room.

Noticing a brilliant yellow caterpillar inching its way on the garage floor, my husband gently picked it up, cradled it in his hand. Stopping to pass a few words with the roofers, carrying Riley until we got to the ravine entrance, he opened his hand to display the caterpillar curled comfortably in his palm. The muscular, tanned men shrank back in disgust.

"Is it safe?" one asked, and my husband laughed. For the creature's safety, it was being taken to the ravine, to be released there. Then we ventured out for our morning walk, leaving the banging, thudding, sharp reports behind for an hour.