Picture two bleary figures in sweatshirts and jeans, banging away in the early morning freshness. Yes, it's me and Dave, tearing away shingles at 7 in the morning. (Our poor neighbors.) We've started on the roof, and it's like archeology -- dig down through the layers (3 of them) to the bare wood. Fascinating. The bottommost layer, c.1965, is definitely some kind of asphalt, but has a woodgrain' pattern I wish we could find today.
Bang bang bang. I have a hammer and a pry bar; Dave swaggers under a toolbelt. We start at each end of the garage, yanking on the topmost layer. It's tight on there, and bits of shingle fly everywhere. I make a tidy pile of nails and throw the shingle bits on the ground below. The dogs stare at them in astonishment, then up at me: Mom, what the heck are you doing up there?!?
Dave goes faster than I do, and I try to speed up. My hands are trembling with the effort. (We're both going to lose some weight out of this.) Finally he reaches where I am, then he begins pulling the next layer of shingles off, using a specialized 'shovel.' Bigger chunks fly off the roof; some stick in the gutters. (By now, both dogs don't even look up.)
8:30 in the morning. Time for Dave to get a shower and head to work...and my 'regular' day, too. Last night, we were supposed to begin, but an inch of hail and two tornadoes happened, instead. We'll be back up tonight until dark -- the huge dumpster is only here for a few weeks, and both roofs -- the garage, the house -- must be done before it goes.
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