Project 365 d-199

     I know my father was feeling the same way this photo makes me feel when looking at it. Off balance and out of control. The poor fellow had a roof with three layers of shingles on it and it was contributing to a cracking foundation due to all the weight. My suspicion was that  my dad yearned to be able to be up there tackling this issue himself and not having to count on anyone for help. He is a problem solver, a jack of all trades, and his armory of tools is a testament to this. Still, all of this could not make up for the number of years that shown now in his face and hands. The slight angle which his shoulders tilt toward the ground as if the very Earth was attempting to pull him down and claim this task-warrior. How it must feel to only be a spectator of a game that he so loved and secretly wonders if he can still play. My dad has always been in love with the process of working. Not so much for the competed task, but knowing that completed tasks lead to the start of others. He has lived his life in that dimension and his conversation is never far from musing about how he did this, or how he did that. Sweetly, even his mannerisms reveal swiftly moving arms and hands that could just as well be swinging hammers, or grasping tools in the throws of a hectic project. After no call backs from a few roofing contractors and one that acted like a used car salesman he was ready to just do it himself. Disgusted he said, "I'll just do it a little at a time and if it takes a while then it takes a while"! Who was I to tell him no? That would be on par to commanding the wind not to blow. Fortunately, his neighbor's brother works for a roofing company and suggested my dad talk to him about doing the job. Reluctantly, as if one more chance for home improvement glory was about to slip away, he decided to let him tackle the job. They agreed on a price, set a date to start and soon that day came. So it was that the Master allowed a stranger to walk where he shouldn't and do what he couldn't. 

     The sun was artistically placed in a blue sky with clouds that seemed content to wander in streaks rather than gather together en mass. As I pulled into his driveway; I could already see the angst registering across his face as his swinging arms gestured to any empty roof. It was a cross between playing air drums and air band conductor, but this was no time to let a smile sneak across my face. "He said he would be back at one o'clock. It's well after that now, and I haven't heard from him", he huffed. I just let him talk, and jam on the drums. As the solo continued amidst declarations of "If you want something done, you have got to do it yourself"; I noticed the black, shingle-less roof contrasted against the blue sky. Sensing an opportunity to photograph and excuse myself from the concert; I slipped in a question. "Do you want me to photograph what he has done so far", I queried? The swinging arms stopped. "You could", he replied, invisible tools still at the ready. Without hesitation, I grabbed my gear and began photographing the roof against the sky. After a few frames, I began to tilt the camera and loved the way it looked. Suddenly, it occurred to me that this is similar to how he must be feeling right now. Out of control, off balance, and in unfamiliar territory. After about twenty frames the roofer returned to start where he had left off, and I put my camera away. My dad seemed to be relieved that he had returned, but fixed his attention to the every move of the man on his roof.

     It was sad that I couldn't share what I noticed with him. The juxtaposition of the unfinished roof against a perfect sky, as well as that of placing his trust in a process he couldn't control. He wouldn't understand and I fear he might think I was poking fun of him if I dared to share this with him. I just stood there for a while watching him watching the roofer work where he wished he could be. "I love you Pops", I told him breaking the silence. "I love you too, son", he replied still looking up at his roof. I patted him on the shoulder and told him I had to get going. With that we exchanged goodbyes; I loaded my gear and left for home. As I drove home, I thought how hard it was to see this proud man so full of anxiety and longing for his boots to be the ones walking across that precious surface. His hands to be laying the protective shingles after a perfect measurement, and the shock-like fix of the air nailer traveling up his arm into his brain. He is studied in the art of home improvement and he deserves respect for his body bares the lessons he has learned and the projects he has tamed. Gnarled hands, leathery skin, and a sinewy can do Irish frame. He is a Master, but more importantly he is my dad.