Not This Time

Life, unpredictable and often capricious, has decided to throw several water leaks from ice dams our way. I expect that if I lived close to the ocean I'd worry about high tides exacting command over beach front property. Two months ago several homes twenty-five miles away were practically taken out with the retreat of the tide. In one area tons of sand were dumped on an eroded beach to protect houses. Then there are mud slides, flash floods, earth tremors, tornados, beetle infestations, drought.

I've taken this tack as a way to steel myself to the next stage of how to deal with leaks. Having traveled this way before I know that a water mark knows no boundaries. At first you think that that oval shape has reached its zenith, but then it moves beyond the pencil mark shape. It creeps and I draw another shape—as if my mechanical pencil lead exerts an authority over the present contour.

"Is the rug damp?"
My first response, "It's just cold."

I know that the response is an aversion to the truth, but if I can hold off the reality for a few moments more to give me time to accept a truth—water spreads slowly but with a tenacity that brooks no interference.

As Ecclesiastes said, To everything there is a season... In New England this is the season of ice dams.

I'm not a student of architecture; however, I've noted that once the builders of houses made peace with the weather. When I see an old house with a sharply angled roof allowing the snow to peacefully slide off instead of piling up on roof edges, I wonder what happened to that concept. I often see folks fumbling with keys while standing under dripping icicles as they attempt to open the door without being pelleted with water?

The icicles over my door are both long and thick—stilettos hanging like stalactites on the roof overhang. Nothing offers protection from their incessant drip and given the cold weather each drip adds itself to the previous drip. After several hours a substantial mound of ice collects on the stoop. This glacial mound refuses to dissolve even with copious handfuls of ice melt.

Ecclesiastes continues, and a time...

Time, how do we measure time? Universal, Greenwich? By zones? Time lost in procrastination? Time past? Metaphysical constraints? Simplify. I'm thinking of the days of the week. Some days are more auspicious for ice dams. The weekend is not one of those days. And Saturday is better than Sunday.

"We will be there on Monday."

Another spot is now wet. At this point the stains are in the closet, but I can feel their hunger for the larger space. Cajoling with an insensate force doesn't work.

So we'll use our hair drier to fend off the wet and hope that the evening and the colder hours will stem to trickle.