My sense of balance was once so excellent I could tie shoelaces while standing on one leg.
Sensing some deterioration, in October I sought out a medical specialist. I'm slightly wobbly, I said. If I tried one-legged shoe tying I'd keel over. She had me walk this way and that. She asked if I'd ever fallen. NEVER! I said. You're experiencing normal aging, she concluded. Exercises ought to help, but henceforth don't do foolish things requiring delicate balance.
Exactly what was she saying? No circus high wire performances? No walking on boards over raging streams?
Just be careful around ladders, she said.
I happen to love ladders. I own two 7-footers and an extension ladder twice that height. I use them to prune our fruit trees and clean the 225 feet of gutter around our house.
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My gutter agenda disturbed her. Do I climb onto the roof?
Of course, I said. It's the most efficient way.
Her face contorted in what I read as horror. It was as if I'd admitted to having a death wish.
No ladders, she repeated. I nodded, while thinking, we'll see about that. Our house sits under two ancient elms that let loose with tens of thousands of seed pods in the spring and as many yellow leaves at year's end. The first cascades pack our gutters, forcing the rest to aim for our pool.
When the leaves started coming down in late November, I suppressed my desire to spring into action. Why risk breaking my neck for a few leaves, right?
But as the drop intensified, I became anguished. Do I just stand there and let the leaves have their way? In what world is that acceptable?
Then I spied my next-door neighbor casually walking the perimeter of his roof armed with a leaf blower. It was an awesome sight -- a gent nearly as old as me fearlessly blowing.
Cheryl could read my mind. Do nothing foolish, she said. We can hire it out.
She was right, of course. We could hire it out. Leaf guards were another option.
When the rains came, a ton more leaves descended and water began rolling off the roof in sheets, bypassing the gutter system entirely. Now there was no question -- I had to act.
The only question was timing -- do I ascend to the roof in Cheryl's presence or wait until she's gone.
The sight of me perched 10 feet or more off the ground would unnerve her. If I waited until she was away, I'd spare her all that angst. Then again, who would call 911 if there were a mishap?
I picked the last day of December while Cheryl was visiting her grandson. I swung from the ladder onto the roof in great style, then hunkered down to one knee and began inching around the perimeter, scooping out dense leaf slop coated with ice. The night before had been a cold one.
Maintaining my lowest possible center of gravity was somewhat arduous, but I never stood up. I owed it to Cheryl not to.
I was on the roof for nearly two hours. After the gutters were clean, I moved back from the edge, stood up and blew the shingles.
Back on terra firma, I felt a bit tipsy. It wasn't because of balance disequilibrium. It felt joy in accomplishing a vital homeowner's task. Now the downspouts could drink their fill.
As predicted, Cheryl was aghast when she got home. "I wasn't here to catch you," she said.
Ignoring the unrealistic "catch me" assertion, I assured her all had gone well. No woozy moments. I can still handle this, I said.
The next test will come in late March. That's elm pod season.
Kevin can be reached at [email protected].
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