This is an archived article that was published on sltrib.com in 2016, and information in the article may be outdated. It is provided only for personal research purposes and may not be reprinted.
My wife told me I can't get on the roof anymore. This isn't all that surprising given the sort of things I have done up there.
From my roof I can hit the house and patrol car of a Unified Police Department officer with a bag of gum balls fired from a slingshot. I can drive the neighbors' dogs crazy the same way, but with treats. They love Doggy Yums, but it plays with their minds when someone tosses a Yum to them at 115 mph.
But I also get on the roof for important stuff. I used to tie a light-up Santa Claus to one of the vent pipes for Christmas. I climb up there to get toys the grandkids toss too high and too far. And I fix shingles and other things damaged by cannon fire.
The crazy thing is that there've been times when my wife wanted me on the roof. In 1992, my youngest daughter Gin helped me reroof the entire house after a hail storm beat the shingles to pieces. Took us a week. And nobody got hurt.
Not anymore. By executive decision, my roof-running days are over. Forever.
It isn't that my wife told me I can't get on the roof because I'll do something stupid. She used to say that all the time but I mostly ignored her and did it anyway.
Now she's saying I'll fall off and get hurt.
So what? I've fallen off roofs lots of times. I broke my leg in 1976. Broke my wrist in 1991. Another time I dislocated a finger trying to hang on. Took 15 feet of rain gutter with me when I finally fell. Then there's my elbow, which has never been the same since some patio furniture broke my fall in 2009.
Turns out my wife isn't worried that I'll fall. She knows I'll do that. She's worried now that the damage will be permanent.
Me: "Why can't I get on the roof? I haven't fallen off since —"
Her: "Because now in addition to being clumsy, you're old. It takes forever for you to heal."
There was no arguing. The decision had been made.
I hate these reminders that my days of shrugging off injury is past. I was 23 years old when I broke my leg (the first time). I healed myself in 19 days.
I sawed the cast off after 12 days and went back to work. My wife told the doc; he got mad and put on an indestructible plastic cast. I sawed that one off too. It just took longer.
To make sure that my roofing days were over, my wife told our daughters, their husbands, the grandkids and all of the neighbors. He is not allowed on the roof.
#$%@!
There have to be some exceptions. Last week, my grandkids threw a ball onto the roof that rolled down and got stuck in the rain gutter. They felt bad. I offered to get it down with them so long as it was our little secret. They agreed.
All I did was lean the ladder against the house, climb up part way, and retrieve the ball. I didn't even come close to getting on the roof.
I tossed the ball down. The kids went back to playing. But as soon as my wife came out of the house with her special raspberry squares, they all came running.
"Grammy! Papa got on the roof! We saw him!"
Little brats. I wonder how fast I can make a raspberry treat travel?
Robert Kirby can be reached at rkirby@sltrib.com or facebook.com/stillnotpatbagley.