The roofers arrived at our house at 7 a.m. sharp on a Wednesday morning. Their white ¾-ton pickup parked under a pine, and three men piled out, each taking a moment to stretch after an hour-long drive. From my view through the dining room window I could tell at once that these were serious laborers. They were wearing tool belts.

For the next day and a half they went at it, righting wrongs done by an April hail storm. Just how long the removal part of the process took I cannot say, because my chauffeuring services were required mid-morning. I returned, however, in time to marvel at an 18-wheeler loaded with several pallets of roofing materials attempting to back up our driveway. The driver succeeded, and as a result the sound of work intensified throughout our piece of real estate – extension ladders knocking against gutters, instructions shouted across eaves, a skill saw cutting through plywood. Who knew securing shingles could be so symphonic? Or poetic? Poe’s raven had nothing on these guys. They were “tap, tap, tapping” all the day long.

At precisely noon I let the crew know lunch was ready. The foreman, Antonio of the floppy hat, led his partners inside where they washed their hands and politely bowed their heads for a blessing. Over salsa chicken and Caesar salad, I learned that two of them were originally from Acapulco and the other was a native of Honduras. I learned little else. Language barriers are tough.

About that time I noticed our youngest roofer was looking intently at something behind me. I followed his gaze to our kitchen sink, where the object of his study appeared to be our make-do faucet lever – a Stanley screw driver. A flathead Stanley screwdriver, to be more precise.

So I wondered how best to explain why that MacGyverish piece of rigging was there, and that no, it was not a part of the permanent kitchenscape (as if they cared).

Should I begin by telling my lunch guests that Son No. 2 had actually broken the faucet a couple of days before, but it really wasn’t a big deal because the faucet had been dripping for several weeks anyway? Better not, since doing so might indicate that my husband had failed in his household responsibilities and let a faucet drip incessantly for no good reason, which wasn’t true (the failed part). The faucet had dripped for a very good reason – it was broken beyond repair – and I alone was the holdup in replacement progress because I couldn’t pick out a new faucet. Well, couldn’t is the wrong word. I could pick one out, but I hadn’t. That’s because I have trouble making decisions of that sort. Polished chrome or oil rubbed bronze? Single handle or two? Pull down or pull out?

Thinking that this kind of wimpy internal struggle might be hard to convey to guys who spend most of their waking hours in harsh Mississippi humidity, I wondered if they could understand better if I related that aspect of my personality to how it had factored into their own job scheduling that week: Architectural or three-tab? Charcoal (that’s black) or weathered wood (that’s more brown)? Monday or Wednesday? Or would Friday be better?

On second thought, I considered instead how I might summarize a conversation held in the early a.m. in that very room that went something like this: “Sure, Honey, I’ll make them lunch, but I’ll have to be able to use the kitchen sink.”

Yes, maybe that would be the best approach. Put it all on the table. Hold nothing back. “And that, my three amigos,” I could picture myself saying as I waved my hand over the stainless steel, “is why there’s a flathead where a faucet lever should be.”

(I might even throw in “you can just call it American ingenuity” for good measure.)

But in the end, I didn’t even attempt to offer an explanation. I was afraid Daughter No. 2’s year of Spanish wasn’t up to a translation of that sort, so I decided to divert that young roofer’s attention away from fixture issues to something else. I chose to seek common ground, to lay off the home-repairese. I pulled out a universal language.

“More sweet tea?”

And if his upturned glass was any indication, I think it worked.

 

Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader. Contact her at kimhenderson319@gmail.com.