Everyone knew it was only a matter of time before I bludgeoned my wife across the face with a blunt instrument of death.

We’ve been working on various projects at the cabin this year; leveling the shifting floors, installing a new water heater, constantly fighting the 50 year old outboard, and finally/eventually tackling a project that has been put off for too many years – installing the new roof. Last year my father hauled all the ‘squares’ of roofing tiles from Oregon which we then proceeded to bring across by boat and store in the (leaning) boat house. This year we hauled the seemingly countless 70lb squares up the trail, one by one, to the deck of the cabin where they sat for over a month, partly because we were in the middle of other projects, partly out strategic procrastination, hoping some agile stranger would fall from the sky and land atop our roof, demand to do all the work (for free, of course) before coming down to make our lunch.

Alas, no miracles came to pass, so this morning we began the arduous task of removing two previous layers of roofing, tar, and nails – working from one end of the roof to the other before the blazing High Sierra sun hit the dark green asphalt. My dad, ever the mountain climber chose to straddle the ridgeline while I worked from a long ladder below him, our scrapers, pullers, and shovels, yes, shovels meeting in the middle of each row as the bare wood was scraped clean. Meanwhile, down below, Megan was working  diligently at the ground level, cleaning up the mess we had made from the previous rows above.

Now, I’m pretty sure my wife is aware of superstitious warnings like, “Never let a black cat cross your path,” or, “Break a mirror, seven years bad luck!” Unfortunately, for her, nobody bothered sharing the age-old bit of actual/relevant wisdom, “Never walk under a ladder! No, seriously, girl – don’t do it!”

Perched on the top step of my ladder, I’d use the end of a squared-off shovel one-handed to slide beneath the previous layers of roofing material, coming to a stop at each of the nails hidden in black tar. This would cause me to pull back a bit (with one hand), and heave with all of my might to get the sharpened lip of the steel shovel under the heads of the nails and yank them from the wooden roof deck underneath, sometimes even severing the heads right off the nail’s shank. About one quarter of the time this would work as planned, but the other 75% of attempts failed either due to an improper angle of the shovel face or me simply losing enough balance that I’d be forced to choose; either let the shovel swing in it’s natural eight-foot arc down to my side (the five foot shaft plus my three-foot arm), or fight it and likely have the momentum pull me off the ladder onto the granite boulders below. Time after time I instinctively chose the former and, keeping my eyes up the roof, I’d feel the shovel accelerate through the air before the flat back would slam into the ladder below my feet, clattering against the thin aluminum. Then, I’d just swing swing it back up for another attempt. Over and over again – exhausting, teetering, arm-numbing work.

About two-hours into the project, just as I had done hundreds of times before, I let the sharp, heavy, steel shovel fell away, gravity accelerating it as usual through it’s wide arc. But, this time it didn’t crash and clank against the ladder below. Instead, it hit something relatively soft, meaty even, with a touch of bone underneath. My heart had already stopped before I looked down to see Megan folded over motionless, holding the side of her face. “No!!!!” I screamed, imagining at least 50 major injuries to the eyes, nose, teeth, and scalp.

“I’m alright,” she quickly tried to calm my worst fears. “It’s my fault, I’ll be okay,” she added, still hunched over, calming my abject horror just enough to allow me to wonder if our life insurance covers home repair accidents. I’m honestly still not sure how she managed to stay upright let alone keep from crying, but damn, she’s tough! After a couple of minutes of walking it off together, she was back at it picking up nails and chunks of worn roofing to be later hauled across the lake to the truck to later be hauled to the dump.

I let an appropriate amount of time pass (a calculation only arrived upon after ten years of marriage, yet still up for irregular debate) before I called down to her, “Hey, honey?  What’s what saying about walking under ladders?”

“Uh, don’t do it?” she replied, laughing before playing the part of an abused wife at the emergency room, “He didn’t mean to hit me in the face with a shovel, officer. It was an accident, I swear! I’m just lucky it wasn’t the hammer this time!”

Meanwhile, I’m keeping a close eye on her to make sure she doesn’t have a concussion. Though, secretly I’m looking forward to the day when, in the heat of a superfluous marital squabble I’m able to diffuse the tension by paying homage to the ominous warning from A Winter’s Bone, “I told you once with my mouth. Don’t make me get the shovel.”

We’re not for everyone. Thus, we’re perfect for each other.
– Steve