How I Stopped Having to Get Up on the Roof

When I first bought my house 20 years ago, I scampered up and down the ladder onto the roof as frequently as needed to clean the gutters. Since my house is surrounded by tall Ponderosa pines and the roof's pitch is not steep, the gutters were always getting clogged with needles that rolled down the gentle slope. Though it's a ranch-style house and therefore has only one story, the east side of the house has a steep drop-off to a ditch, and I can't place a ladder there, so I'd climb up from the west side to do the gutter cleaning. In addition, I have a woodburning stove, and I'd get up on the roof twice a year to clean out the chimney. I thought I was pretty sassy and cool to be able to do all this myself.

However, over the years I became less enthusiastic about being up on the roof. My first frowny moment came when I started having trouble pushing and pulling the chimney brush up and down the interior of the chimney. The top of the chimney is at shoulder level, and right about the time I noticed that time's winged chariot had knocked me down and run over my face, I also noticed that the chimney had apparently developed the ability to hold onto the chimney brush. One day it defeated my efforts to pull the brush out, and I had to call a nice strong neighbor to come and finish the job for me. My nose pertly tilted to hide my mortification, I went to the computer and found a local chimney-cleaning company to take over this particular chore.

I continued to clean the gutters (as a matter of principle I refused to look at the chimney), but it gradually became less satisfying and more tedious. In addition, as the years passed I became more and more aware that my earlier belief in my indestructibility was a youthful fantasy. I started to fear that I'd fall off, and did my gutter cleaning with great concentration and my eyes firmly averted from the ground below me.

It was on a fine, sunny October day several years ago, with a chill in the air and the leaves in full autumn glory, that the Universe decided to give me a warning. Arriving home from work in the waning light of late afternoon, I went into the house and laid a fire in the stove. A minute after it began to blaze, smoke began to waft out of the stove instead of going up the chimney. I ran outside and saw that the wire mesh that a (different) neighbor (with poor judgment) had insisted on wrapping around the opening below the chimney cap to keep the birds out had become blocked with soot.

I grabbed the tall ladder from the garage and placed it up against the side of the house. Clambering onto the roof, I noticed that there were patches of ice left from the previous weekend's snow, so I was careful as I made my way over to the chimney, wire cutters in hand. It only took a moment to cut the wire away, and to my relief the smoke immediately began to emerge from the chimney.

When I cautiously made my way back down the roof to the ladder and turned around to step down onto it, I found that I hadn't set it securely. It kept sliding along the gutter when I tried to get on it, and I knew I was in trouble. With growing alarm, I crawled a few feet up the roof and sat down to evaluate my situation. It's nearly evening now, I thought, and the light is fading. I don't have my cell phone. My neighbors' houses aren't close enough for anyone to hear me calling for help. There's ice up here and the temperature's going to drop below freezing soon. I don't even have a jacket on because I was in such a rush to get out of the house. If I get on that ladder, it will fall and I'll break my leg--or worse. If I jump off the roof, I'll break both legs--or worse.

Fear and the realization that I could freeze to death up there, or sustain serious-to-fatal injury by jumping off, generated some significant adrenalin. (I think a few angels were on hand as well.) With strength I would never have believed I had, I started lifting the heavy ladder and trying to set it down securely. On the fifth or sixth effort, when I knew I wouldn't be able to lift it many more times, I managed to place it on firm ground. My arms quivering, I carefully made my way down. When I tried to carry the ladder back to the garage, I found I didn't have the strength to keep it from dragging along the ground, so I laid it down and left it there.

After clearing the smoke from the inside of the house and sending up a few heartfelt prayers of gratitude, I went to the computer and looked up a product about which I had been hearing. It was advertised as a system that covers the gutters so that rain and melting snow roll over the edge and are pulled into the gutter by surface tension, but everything else slides over the helmet and falls to the ground. The expense, which had previously kept me from investing in it, suddenly seemed like no problem at all.

I had a saleswoman out the next day to take measurements and give me an estimate. I didn't mention the roof incident, since I knew I'd been a real fool and I was embarrassed. Besides, the previous day's shock had subsided somewhat, and I was again concerned about the cost. I murmured, "Oh dear," when she gave me the figure. She smiled at me and said, "You know, you're one of the smart ones. Half of my customers call me after they've fallen off the roof."

That put a whole new light on it. I wasn't an idiot who had nearly killed herself by being careless. No, I was one of the smart ones. I'd called before I fell off the roof (barely). Smiling back at her, I said, "Really? How silly of them. When can you have it installed?"

I haven't been up on the roof for years now, and every penny I spent on that gutter system has been well worth it. Most companies guarantee them for as long as you own your house; I saw a little buckle in one section a couple of years ago, and a technician was out the next day to fix it at no charge. I'm eternally grateful that I'll never have to clean a gutter or get up on that roof again. After all, only fools get up on the roof. And I'm no fool. I'm one of the smart ones.