Percussion

You're right, it is about dA#$ed time I go something written up here. I thought the blogging would always go easily, since I have an almost bottomless font of ideas and fingers that type even faster than I can think. But the first part of the year has simply been hard for me. It's been almost two and a half months of uniform doldrums. I think the problem must be with myself and my perception; I love to write about things I find funny, but it seems nothing funny has been happening, and the fountain has dried up. It must just be that I'm in a slump and feeling too serious to notice what's going on around me. It cannot possibly be that nothing funny has happened since January 1st.

This morning the tyke was waxing rhapsodic over a friendship that's been blossoming since the beginning of the school year. Apparently he was the first kid to make friends with a very smart new boy, and they have been stuck together like Siamese twins ever since. Last weekend he had a sleepover at the friend's house, and already he's been asked back for this weekend, contingent on our giving permission for him to go to an evening percussion concert at the university. The two boys are connected partly through their love of music, and the other boy is already a brilliant pianist at age nine. He also plays drums and marimba. It's kind of eerie to watch him on an instrument. He almost seems possessed, or as though the instrument is actually part of his body, and the music just flows out of him in an unnaturally perfect way.

After the tyke left for school I found a Post-it note under the phone that said, "7:30 onsomble." I had looked up the concert on the web and told him it was the "Graduate Student Percussion Ensemble." I guess I should have pronounced it en-sem-ble, for spelling ease.

Speaking of percussion, we are having the roof completely torn off and replaced. Wham! They have found a lot of rotten boards (the underlayment) and have pulled them off and cut new ones and trotted them up there on an eight-hundred-foot long ladder whose feet are anchored in nothing but uneven gravel and dirt. And slip around periodically. This experience has taught me a lot about not only the process I am witnessing, but also about myself. I am nothing more than a frigging quivering mass of Jell-o. No backbone here; all bets are off. And maybe just a teensy bit of a control freak.

1. I cannot abide seeing people go up ladders. It makes me dizzy and fall just thinking about it.
2. I've stayed in the house and not gone anywhere because I can't tolerate the idea of seeing them up on the roof, three stories and some higher. To my mind, the phrase "that much closer to God" is a double-entendre in this context. If I went outside I would look, and I have to prevent that from happening.
3. I cannot stand to hear them up there, because I am curious and horrified at the same time.
4. Finally letting my curiosity get the better of me, I went upstairs to figure out which part of the roof they were working on, and immediately knew that they were just over G's Toxic Waste Dump and the linen closet, and it sounded as though they had come through and were whacking around amongst the blankets. If I opened the door I might see sky.
5. They must not, under any circumstances, need to come inside the house (as they assured me they would eventually) and go up the little ceiling hole in G's closet in order to get into the attic and see where the exhaust is going. They would have to wade through the Toxic Waste, and we do not own any gas masks to lend out. G screams commands about no access, but won't motivate himself to clean up the dump so will be the loser in this battle. I feel so sorry for anyone who has to venture in there. Besides, they might call the Health Department or Fire Department--as well they should--and then we would have one more thing to worry about.
6. Contradicting my previous belief, and it comes as a surprise, I do NOT actually like big power tools. They have lost their fascination and I am no longer in awe. When you see the huge orange extension cord come out, it is time to run far away.
7. I just heard an enormous crash over the living room that sounded like an elephant fell into the attic. I want to go peek in the attic door, but I'm afraid it will be like stepping into the middle of "Jumanji." Giant exotic moss might reach out and pull me to the stars. Or the little straggling trees that were trying to get a roothold on the roof might make one last desperate stand before being taken down like Custer.
8. The old. roof. wasn't. pretty. All delusion has fallen by the wayside (literally), and it is now in crumbled asphalt shards and big wooden splinters all over the groundcover, except for the few exceptions that actually made it into the three-sizes-too-enormous dumpster that is so conveniently blocking the driveway and garage. I guess what I should be saying is that we are unaccountably blessed that the house never FLOODED and all we had was some damp in the upstairs closets and some mildew in the bathrooms due to the wet and the lack of ventilation (which is now going to be fixed with a ridge vent and exhaust outlet).
9. Another elephant just fell into the attic. The entire house shook.
   
10. Now they are out there looking around at something and arguing with each other. This throwing up of gloved hands can't be good. WHERE IS THE FOREMAN?
11. After a brief whomping, now there is utter and complete silence. Not even any talking. Irreconcilable differences? What are they doing? Omigod, was the second elephant actually the chimney falling on them? Are they flat as Wyle E. Coyote after he opens and ACME product box? I cannot tell. I will not permit myself to go outside and look. The attic is still dark (no bricks came through).
12. Perhaps the elephants are a good thing. They might scare the ineradicable mice that have been living between the attic floor and the ceiling. (Or, maybe that should be the other way around: the mice might scare the elephants. Oh, that's all we need.)
13. Hmmm, I would really just like to hear some voices or some squeaky tearing off or some hammering or some other signs of life. PLEASE. I don't think the red-tailed hawks got them, even though their work coats are vaguely chipmunk-colored.
14. They have come down to the truck and are now loading their shoulders with shingles and going up the eight-hundred-foot long ladder with both hands full. There goes the nail gun. There goes the huge orange extension cord. The generator is turned on and squealing.
15. One surprise: I think this is all noisier for the neighbors than it is for me. Maybe it's kind of like being in the eye of a hurricane. So far, that feels lucky.
    
16. Now it just sounds like a normal hammer. Is this the calm before the storm?

I'd better just go do something else that requires extreme concentration and the ability to go temporarily deaf. Maybe take a six-hour bath with my head entirely under water.