Why Can't Girls Throw???

"Ahh, its a small roof. Not even very high. How hard can it possibly be to re-roof it?" That was my comment when the wife suggested we hire someone to replace it about 5 years ago. My house was built in 1958, the same year that my wife was created. Both creations of that year have dogged me relentlessly ever since. Judging from condition of the cracked, wrinkled shingles on the roof I thank God that intervening years have not had nearly such a substantial effect on my spouse! However, the way I am feeling tonight I think they both might be due for replacement.) The roof is steep, 10 inches of rise for every foot of run. Five years ago when the wife suggested having it replaced a roofer estimated it would cost about $8,000. My response was typically Alaskan, laugh at the outrageous price gouging, tack a blue tarp over the leaking spot, and promise the wife I would fix it myself. Well the sun has finally rotted the tarp and the wife is again bugging me to honor my promise.


I managed to diddle away most of this gorgeous summer fishing, hiking, canoeing and generally doing important things but winter is coming any day so I guess is time to pay the piper. I started the job about a week ago with help from my eldest son, Jeremiah, and his fiend, Justin. Having more common sense than normal, we tore off only the shingles on the north side of the house, leaving the south side untouched in case winter arrives early. The work was more grueling than any of us anticipated. The steep slope requires us to do everything while roped into climbing harnesses since it is impossible to even stand on the slippery slope without the aid of a rope. Such constraints even make scratching your ass or picking your nose a major operation, let alone carrying around, squaring up and screwing in a 15 foot piece of sheet metal. Luckily Justin is part gorrila so we made pretty good progress last weekend. Unfortunately Jeremiah left to go back to work up north early this morning so I am on my own this evening.

Returning home from a day at the office filled with meetings, financial BS and the general frustrations of modern office work,I feel invigorated at the thought of getting back to some real life physical labor that will make a difference in whether or not I stay warm and dry during the coming winter months. I had spent my lunch hour researching various rock-climbing devices which might make my roofing job easier and was anxious to try them out after I had satisfied my growling stomach. Arriving at home I find my wife passed out on the couch with headache after her hard day tending to the needs of juvenile delliquent middle schoolers. A bit peeved over having no diner to satisfy my growling stomach I change into my grubby clothes and prepare for an evening of work on the roof. I plan to use a new angle measuring gizzmo purchased on my lunch hour to measure the angle of cut I need to make on the sheet metal coming into a valley between a dormer roof and the main roof. We had been making these cuts by using a tape measure up to this point, usually with rather dismal results. I figure that if the new method works well I will cut a template and thus make the job considerably easier. I carefully rope myself in using my newly purchased climbing descender and climb to the ridge top. I quickly realize that carrying my new angle measurer device while pulling myself up the rope is difficult so I resort to holding it in my teeth while I make the ascent. Once in position I whip out my new gizzmo to measure the angle. I discover that the thing is really too small to use properly but do my best to get as good a reading of the angle as possible. I put the gizzmo back in my mouth and drag myself back up over the ridge-top, back down the other side, down the ladder and to my saw horses. I begin to pick out an appropriately sized piece of roofing metal and again am overcome with unusual common sense and decide to make the cut using a piece of scrap material instead. Installing my new metal cutting blade in my circular saw I begin making the cut. Sparks fly into the evening air but the saw does a pretty good job of hacking its way through the sheet metal. Once again I make my way up the ladder, up the rope, to the ridge-top and down the other side, this time lugging a razor sharp piece of sheet metal along with with me. To my dismay I find that my test piece is cut at a totally inappropriate angle. Discouraged I look around to figure out what I should try next. I notice a thunder cloud rolling in from the north so I decide maybe I should call it a night and re-apply the tarping system before the rain starts. I fling the worthless test piece off the roof, and drag myself back up the rope, over the ridge, down the other side and back down the ladder. On the ground again, I retrieve one of my 4 hammer staplers, Thinking ahead, I check to make sure it is loaded with stales and put an extra box of ammunition in my pocket in case I run out while re-applying the tarps. I climb back up the ladder, re-rope myself into the climbing harness, haul myself back up to the ridge, use my fancy descender to work myself down the other side and begin to staple down the tarps. The third whack with the stapler results in it jamming. (a frequent occurence I might add) Happy that my new descender is holding me securely in place I attempt to unjam the stapler. It proves hopeless. About this time my wife and daughter arrive in front of the house. While I had been working they had decided they were hungry and went to KFC despite the fact that the refridgerator is overflowing with food that they bought this weekend to feed my work crew. (they were tired to cook) I figure this is a stroke of good luck and ask my lovely wife to go into the garage and throw up one of my other staplers. I hang suspended by my rope and await her return. She comes back with the stapler in hand and disappears from sight below the roof line. I tell her to stand back farther so that she has a better angle to throw it to me. Her first attempt bangs off the roof edge prompting her to yell for my daughter, Rachel. She instructs Rachel to make the second attempt. My daughter's first attempt has the same dismal result. As Rachel winds up for the third throw my wife warns her NOT to throw it though the living room window. You guessed it!!! The third throw ends with a creassendo of shattering glass punctuated with numerous vocal curses.

As I write this, sipping a glass of scotch, (can't drink beer anymore, doctors orders, but scotch is Ok) I wonder...Why do I even try....Why is my stomach growling but I have no appetite? Why don't I just screw my job tending stupid computers, screw the house, screw the bills and go live by myself in some shack back up in the mountains? Then I remember that the only thing I have left to screw is my 1958 model wife... Most of all, I wonder, WHY CAN'T WOMEN THROW ???...

Blogged with Flock

Winter River Walk

(events of Jan. 2 2007)

Today I reconcile with with brother-in-law Mike for the unfortunate destruction of his mail box We meet near the Public Gardens at day-break (10:30AM) and hike up river with the dogs for a mile or so. The morning is crisp but not too cold for this time of year but the river remains a wintertime highway. The dogs enjoy the romp in the snow and are busy filling their nostrils with all sorts of exotic scents as we trudge up-river. Going on a walk-about with a guy, even a talkative guy like Mike, tends to be quiet endeavor, quite unlike the chatty outings which one experiences when accompanied by females. Winter's silence is punctuated with occasional observations about the tracks left by the night's passing animals and a few generalized comments about the current state of world affairs. We come to a spot across from an overhanging tree with a hollow under it.

"Looks like a moose or something might have bedded down under that tree over there." Mike comments as we pause on our journey.
Looking closer at the area in question I remark, " Don't know...but it kinda looks like a spot of bad ice to me." As if Jezz and Duke understand my words, they immediatly go bounding over to investigate.

"Crackkk...Sploosh!" The ice beneath them explodes in verification of my words. The dogs' initial reactions are those of surprised pleasure. "Oh boy! We get to go swimming."



"Jezz. Duke. COME...Come here!" I yell in an authorative voice despite my helplessness. Both dogs swim to the broken ice shelf. Jezz gets her front paws onto the ledge but seems unable to haul her rotundo butt free of the current dragging at it. Duke, with muscles straining, gets himself three quarters of the way out when the ice beneath him crumbles, sending him on a back-flip under the surface. It is an anxious moment before his head again pops above the swirling black waters and I see a flash of panic in his eyes. I remove the small pack I carry and begin digging for the rope I carry within it. I am not sure what I will do once I have it...Will the dogs be smart enough to bite and hold the end of it if I throw it so that I can pull them free or will I need to try some kind of trick at lassooing them? Niether option sounds very promising.

Somehow Jezz gets a block of free floating ice under her rear legs and its boyancy gives her enough leverage to pull herself free. She runs over to me but notices her mate still clammoring in the icy hole beore I can grab her collar. Being a typical canine she immediatly starts back towards the hole.

"Jezz...Come!! Come here girl!"

To my great relief she obeys my command instead of her instincts and I am able to get a firm hold on her. Duke, inspired by his mates freedom, get another surge of adrenalin and pulls himself up onto ledge. The ice holds this time and soon both dogs are rolling in the powder snow drying their coats.

Deciding we have had enough adventure for the mornings we begin walking towards home. The dogs frolic in the snow seemingly uncognizant of the ice clinging to their coats or their near brush with icy death. About halfway home Mike stops and pointing ahead to the north bank declares "Moose." Sure enough, a cow and calf are munching on the willows about 30 yards ahead. We grab the dogs moments before they pick up the scent and bring them to a sit. The cow pricks her ears and sniffs the breeze. Our odor makes her nervous and she begins herding her calf across the river directly in front of us. The dogs are on high alert but sit like statues as the two animals pass. We continue on our way but the dogs remain preoccupied with the area of the bank from where the moose had emerged. The source of thier interests reveals itself when a young Malamute mix comes bounding out of the thickets. After an ectastic orgy of butt snifing we head for home once again.

Arriving at the back door I order the dogs to "sit" while I open the entry. Jezz, with her insatiatable love afair with her food bowl happily bounds inside. Duke, forever the knothead, decides he isn't yet done adventuring and bolts from the doo. I trail him the block or so to where the subdivision gives way to forest and find him happily laying scent posts on every tree stump he can find. I coax him to come with me back home. It is pretty funny... He saunters with a bull-legged gait because his "male-hood" is encased in two huge balls of ice joined to a tubular ball-bat chunk of ice swinging between his legs. Both dogs are no worse for the wear and still follow my every move in fear that I might go outside and do something fun. As for me, I might go out for a walk yet tonight since the moon is just too nice to waste. If I do, I will go by myself. I have had enough doggie adventure for one day. Who knows, maybe I will even stay inside...That bean soup on the stove tastes mighty fine and its "after effects" are lending a pleasing ambiance to the ol'e cabin.

"Home "sweet" Home!"

Pyrotechnic Traditions and the Arrival of 2007

Today I welcome the Eve of 2007 by taking the dogs for a 10+ mile ski down the Tanana river. The sun sets shortly after we start, painting the subarctic sky with a subtle purple and blue spectral brush and highlighting its strokes with slender cracks bleeding crimson. A nearly full moon rising in the East pushes these colors off the celestial canvas, replacing them with a sheet of midnight blue speckled by the icy white pin-points of Ursa Major. The river we travel slithers like a fat, luminous, white serpent through the black and grey shadows of the engulfing spruce forest. We run through this landscape silently. No moose emerg from the shadows to interrupt our hypnotic stride. Icicles grow like stalagmites from my beard and eyelashes while frost sprays luminous jet streams along the dark mucsles rippling in the flanks of the dogs. We run like this for a mere few hours but in doing so transcend into eternity.

Returning home to the mortal world, we discover a kitchen filled with the aroma of the beef roast Cindy has started simmering on the stove. We wolf down these tender morsels and retire to the living room where the dogs find a warm corner and I settle down to watch several DVDs about Leonardo Da Vinci. Rachel was heading out to watch the fireworks, Leah is with girl friends soaking at Chena Hot Springs. Cindy sleeps on the couch awaiting an expected call to go work at the hospital. When 2007 finally bursts into reality, I wake Cindy trying to recruit her as my accomplice and get-away driver (since my daughters were not available). She is too sleepy to partake of my traditional conspiracy so I alone boldly accept the mission. I gather up my winter gear, stuff my parka pocket with a roll of 1000 fire-crackers and begin the stealthy stalk of my brother-in-laws mail box. My quarry is no match to my pyrotechnic scheming and is soon reduced to a smoldering heap amid its acrid blanket of steaming snow.

The highlight of New Years Day is walking to the grocery store with Cindy in order to pick up supplies for a batch of bean soup. Once there, we share a hot sugar free vanilla lat'e, and pack our supplies into the small back-pack. Walking home along the snowy streets I try to get a step ahead of Cindy prior to reaching each over-hanging tree. Jumping up, I bang the branches causing an avalanche of white powder to engulf my bride. Soon we are half heartedly racing towards each tree, giggling like teenagers beneath our now white parkas. We stop off for a rest at her sister's house where I am promptly and thouroughly reprimanded for my pyrotechnic hooliganism of the previous night. "Hey! don't blame me for the destruction of your mail box. It's tradition after all and traditions are important!"