Livin' Off the Land

Livin’ Off the Land
Dad was a scavenger. He could not pass by a scrap heap without a hefty look-see. No telling what treasure lurked hidden among the rubble and castoffs of less visionary souls than he. What appeared to be a mound of metal to most was the essence of rebirth, the seed of rejuvenation to Dad. During Dad’s tenure at the foundry, fodder for his creative bent was limitless. Slag, steel, rejected castings and molds scattered around the plant and the yard vied for his attention. He was their savior. He found beauty in these miscarriages; tossed away and hidden from view, Dad sought them out. Pushed to the edges of the foundry fence was an assortment of mistakes and errors that held a certain appeal for him. They retained their dignity in his eyes, awaiting the opportunity for the second chance his imagination could provide.
Eventually, however, Dad retired and his source of found materials dried up. Ever resourceful, though, he immediately turned his attention to the curbside bounty that his neighbors so thoughtfully placed in full view each Tuesday. When Dad was working, his early morning forays were usually in the dark. The possibilities that lay in the street were not revealed to him in those predawn hours as they were now that he spent the daylight hours at home.
One Tuesday morning Dad spied a true gem across the street in Joe’s trash pile. Dad walked over to inspect the large fiberglass sheet that used to cover Joe’s patio. Ever the gentleman, Dad knocked on Joe’s front door to inquire after such a serendipitous prize.
“Hey, Med!” Joe grinned as he opened the door. Dad glanced away, one eye on the patio roof near the curb. “So, what’s up for today? Got a new project goin’?”
“Well,” Dad began, tearing his eyes away from the thing of beauty to face Joe, “I was wondering if you would mind me takin’ that old sheet of fiberglass. It’s in perfect condition, ya’ know, so I can’t see lettin’ it go to waste.”
Joe smiled. He knew Dad well. His appearance at the door was not totally unexpected. Joe was not a saver and Dad had an eagle eye for used goods. When Joe looked at his old patio cover he saw a faded, cracked and warped piece of fiberglass. But he was savvy enough to know that Dad saw something else altogether. Italians, in their eagerness to do favors, are walking advertisements for what can go wrong.
“Med, it’s all yours. Need a hand getting it across the street?” Joe offered. He was younger by a number of years, an engineer by profession and bodybuilder by choice. He tinkered with antique cars, sported a handlebar mustache and reveled in camping outside in the dead of winter with just a bottle for company.
“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna put it on the roof of my shed. Should be just the thing to stop those nasty leaks.”
Dad and Joe lugged the fiberglass to Dad’s shed. It was fairly large and somewhat awkward but the old man and young buck walked in tandem across the street, past the house and to the far corner of Dad’s backyard. They looked like they were negotiating a ship’s deck in a storm. Joe helped Dad lean it against the trunk of an old chestnut tree and nearby birdbath. The two shook hands and parted, Joe heading to work and Dad heading for trouble.
Hardly able to contain his joy at the prospect of the project that lay before him, Dad admired the new roof that he had rescued from certain destruction and now possessed at no cost whatsoever. Such a windfall doesn’t happen everyday and he was grateful. He began to say a quick prayer of thanks to St. Anthony, finder of lost things but was distracted by an interesting scheme and the plan for attaching the roof was hatched. Folly became madness.
Although it was windy, the day was bright and clear and mild. Leaves were on the move and intermittent gusts of wind elongated the pendulous clouds scudding overhead. Dad pulled the ladder out from the shed and leaned it against the side. He jockeyed the sheet of fiberglass over to the ladder, pushed and slid it up the rungs and set it on the roof. Gathering up his toolbox he climbed up to the roof’s edge where he planned to begin securing the new piece to the old. Dad nailed the first corner to his satisfaction. Then, before continuing on, he returned to the ground to check the alignment. He noticed that the sheet was somewhat askew and made a mental note of the amount of adjusting needed. He clambered back up to his perch on the ladder and with the forked end of his ball peen hammer, removed the nails. Dad lifted the sheet up, nudging it to the right but the friction from the old roof was making it impossible to budge. Not easily discouraged, Dad tired again to prod the edges with a little more pressure. Still the piece resisted.
Seeing that pushing against the shed roof was not going to work, Dad concocted a new plan. He decided to lift the sheet up and away from the old shingles and finesse it to the right angle. Securing his feet firmly on the rung of the ladder and bracing his body against the shed, he planted his elbows on the roof and hoisted the fiberglass up until he felt enough give to maneuver it into place. As he stretched over to raise both edges simultaneously, the wind picked up rather suddenly and with amazing force, filled the cavity beneath the old patio cover and lifted it into the air. Dad, still holding on, was carried aloft as well. Like a hanglider in flight, Dad and the fiberglass were suspended on the current of air. They soared as one, sailing for several yards, then hovered briefly above the bank near Henry’s picnic table. The wind subsided as quickly as it had begun, dropping Dad and his makeshift aircraft with a resounding thud. He crumpled like a wet noodle at the base of the oak tree.
“Med, are you ok?” yelled Henry as he came running from his garden next door, fearing the worst. Beaulah, who had been nagging Henry while he was weeding, ran to get Mom. This was right up her alley. She relished antagonizing Mom and adding a juicy bit of gossip to her collection as well. Her loud shrill voice carried down to the men, followed by the slamming of a door and footsteps approaching.
Dad grinned sheepishly, chuckled and flashed Henry an apologetic smile. Seeing the inevitable consequence of his action heading toward him, he quickly recovered his wits and ordered “Henry, stand me up. Hurry up, lean me on the tree and don’t say nuthin’.” Henry, as meek as he was mild, did as he was told. He was an amenable man and rarely questioned Dad’s judgement. Out of breath, Mom and Beaulah arrived on the scene, aghast at the bent sheet of fiberglass and eyeing Dad up and down for signs of injury. Dad’s face rediscovered its serious mask.
“You old fool!” Mom burst into tears. She was furious at his carelessness but relieved to see him upright and seemingly unscathed.
“Don’t you ever think? What made you go up that rickety wooden ladder in the first place? All alone? Why didn’t you get Henry here to give you a hand? Faccia la corna! “ Mom gestured with her closed fist, pointing fingers on each side, attempting to ward off the evil luck Dad had courted without her knowledge. She raved on a while longer while Dad hid the excruciating pain that traveled up his leg. He had reinjured himself and his sciatica screamed for attention but he dared not show weakness. He knew what happened to the antelopes that left the herd and were cornered by jackals. Sciatic pain he could live with, it had a shelf life; the torment and scorn from Mom was to be avoided at all costs, apt to linger ad infinitum.
“Beaulah! Jean! Get a hold of yourselves. I’m fine. Go back to what you were doing and leave me be. Henry here’ll give me hand, won’t ya’ Henry?” It was pointless to argue with Mom’s logic.
“Sure, Med,” the co-conspirator said, trying to hide the hint of doubt in his voice. He and Dad were a team and Henry never forgot it. Neighbors these many years, he knew one hand washed the other. Mom turned, shooting a final glance over her shoulder, and headed back to the kitchen shaking her head and muttering under her breath. Beaulah, not to be denied, was determined to make Dad admit injury and foolishness. But Dad held firm, kept his cool and finally Beaulah left temporarily thwarted but vowing to return.
Dad winked at Henry. “Henry, I know I wasn’t planning it but that flying bit! Madonna mia! Now I know what Orville and Wilbur felt like, except that I did it backwards! OK, Henry, peel me off this tree and lay me down on that picnic table of yours. I’m going to take a little nap and when I wake up and it gets a little darker, you’re gonna have to help me sneak into the house and lay me down on the couch. Jean can’t see me and you ain’t gonna tell Beaulah. I’ll pop a few pain pills and be right as rain tomorrow. And then I’m gonna try it again!”

Story ID:	1038
Written by:	toni giarnese (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Family Memories
Location:	New Hartford CT USA
Year:	2006
Person:	Dad