A tale of a tar baby
Way back, when I was jus’ a l’il boy, I read me a tale about the tar baby. Ol’ Uncle Remus sure could spin a good tale. The only problem is that the idea of a tar baby, with all it entailed, remained vague. We lived just down the road from an asphalt plant, so the colour and smell of tar were familiar, but the idea of playing in the stuff didn’t sit well with my parents, and so I abstained.
Now, decades later, with a home of my own, the product commercially marketed as “roof pitch” has entered the basement inventory of noxious products. Although it isn’t often brought out into the light of day, much less bright sunlight, it remains, waiting, in a paint can, to catch us all in its grasp.
There seemed to be some issue with water infiltration after the recent torrential rains, so son #2 agreed to check out the view from the roof. Not in bright sunlight; there are limits to how much heat one can stand. Today, after a shift of marshalling errant shopping carts, freshly cleaned up for an evening with friends, he relented and helped me carry the ladder around to the back of the house.
Smart lad that he is, I didn’t need to give an extensive lecture on the dangers associated with the electrical entry, so we pitched the ladder and I pitched him roofward with a can of pitch. And a brush, of course.
Did you know that when you get roofing tar on your hand, it also jumps to the ladder, and your pants, and your eyebrow, and the arm of those who support the ladder, and the shoulder of your mother who wants things to be clean when the job is done. NO decorator colours here; the only option is black, just like the Model T.
My roof has been repaired (actually a minor touchup job around the electrical mast, so that the next rainfall will find its way groundward with a minimum of derivation of path). We have dirtied two sinks, several cloths, the container of paint thinner, the side of the ladder where I didn’t complete the cleaning before it dried AND my fingernails. When I return to the office tomorrow, I can use an available bottle of whiteout to hide any further traces, I guess. The dog escaped without a mark.
The old Uncle Remus story about the tar baby is probably true, with the names changed to protect the innocent.
