on this day

November 30, 2019

When my PaCharley died this year, I wrote (“Dad 2”) about a phrase that had inadvertently popped into my head. “I have no more dads.” Even at the time I knew that it was not really true. And more so than ever, I know it now. I have more dads than I could ever deserve. More people in my life who have, and do, selflessly give of themselves for the sake of me. Once a friend of mine told me she would ask her husband, in moments of insecurity, “Why do you love me?” I was in an adventurous, and somewhat youthfully self-confident season of life at the time. The question puzzled me, as I imagined marriage to be a state of being that would eliminate such statements of insecurity. I also thought that age would have a similar effect, automatically creating self-assurance. I no longer think so.
Rather, I find myself biting my tongue to keep from asking the same question of my husband. That and Fiddler on the Roof’s famous lyrical line: an even more bold, “Do you love me?”
I should clarify that I have no reason whatsoever to doubt his love; it is a patient and steadfast devotion that I am constantly in awe of. To a fault. I know he wishes I did not question my worth as much as I do …I wish so too.
But for whatever reason, God saw fit to piece me together in this confusing jumble of boldness & hesitancy, of self-assurance & self-doubt … of countless pairings of seemingly contradictory traits. I get tired of living with myself; I can only imagine how others in my life feel!
But I guess what I want to say right now is that I am humbled by the shoulders that have propped me up over the years, and that continue to do so. My Uncle G, who filled in for my father in countless ways after our move to the US. My stepdad Lou, who literally “stepped” in during a rough season for us all; he instantly took on a devoted and caring role for my mother and us kids. It allowed me to let go of a weight of responsibility I felt as the oldest, and set me free to begin living my life as a young adult. My “Dad 3”-Ken-who has welcomed me into the family with unquestioning and wide-open arms, from that very first introductory Skype call. My own brothers now, mature and hardworking dads in their own families, have reversed the roles over the years and extended this care to me, the “big” sis.
In short, I may be holding up my arms from external appearances, living an independent, “grownup” life; but like Moses, I know that my hands are actually being held up by countless Aarons in my family, friends, and community. There is no way I could ever repay the debt I own to those who have sustained me over the years. I can only pray that somehow my life can give testimony to the goodnesses granted. Somehow, someday I may get to see the full circle of it; or maybe not.
Today all I can do is bear witness, say “thank you,” and, once again, commemorate what happened 31 years ago:

*photo comes from a quiet morning watching the sunrise, thanks to a beachfront stay generously offered by Phillip and Priscilla.

“on this day”

I remember, this day–November 30–in 1988. On this day, I awoke excited–no, more than that–I was ecstatic. I was running through lines of the Christmas program in my head, eagerly rehearsing for the program that night. You see, tonight we were performing for our families, for my family. They were on their way by this time, I knew, beginning the drive early that morning that would bring them along many lonely dirt roads, winding through villages and across open plains, to arrive here.

It had been 3 months now since I last saw them, when I boarded the little Cessna on the grass strip of our village, clutching my stuffed bear in one arm and holding my sister’s hand with the other. We stood there waving goodbye one last time on the boarding stairs, and then waved again out the window as we sped along the airstrip and lifted off into the air. I loved that moment of lifting off in the airplane–and have ever since–the exciting rush of becoming airborne and soaring faster and faster through the air.

That day, however, my excitement of the beginning was tinged with the sadness of knowing I would be away from my family for many nights now. The days were always full of learning, fun adventures in the bush with friends and with various creatures to be discovered and trees to be climbed. The nights were the hard part, though, when I fought the tears that often came in spite of my fierce will, silently dampening my pillow while I stifled the shortened breaths that may give away my tears to the classmates sleeping near me in rows of bunk beds.

The 3 months since that last flight had passed quickly–3 months of good books read, math problems solved, geography discovered, play weddings acted out in free time, and all manner of grade 4 activities. I had also turned 9 the previous month, and knew my family would now celebrate my birthday and my brother’s 4th birthday 3 days earlier, as soon as we made it back home. While on a shopping trip in South Africa, my Dad had acquired our first car, so the decided to make the road trip instead of Helen and I flying home as we had always done before. So, I knew they were loaded up in the Isuzu, along with 2 village friends–a teenage student of my Dad’s and the Zambian pastor he worked with in our Church.

So that afternoon, after various activities designed to keep all us boarding students preoccupied so we wouldn’t be bouncing off the walls with the excitement of our families’ arrivals, we all filed out the drive-up area to await the first arrivals. I had in my mind the perfect picture of what to expect, so as each vehicle arrived, I craned my neck to see my mom’s long arm waving out the window and Alex’s goofy grin peering out from her lap. But the cars came, parents claimed their clamoring kids, and my picture-perfect arrival still had not appeared. Finally, a lady I recognized as the mom of some friends who lived fairly near us went over to our Dorm Mother and said something to her, gesturing in our direction. She then came and told us to go ahead and get ready for the program–not to keep waiting for our parents there.

I was disappointed, but assumed they would arrive at any moment, so just kept waiting as we practiced our songs. My mental image just altered itself to adjust to a late clamor of hugs and kisses rushed in before the program started . . . but the program came, began, and ended, and they had not arrived. The next morning we were taken to the Cessna, and told we were going to go back to the village by flight after all. This time I imagined the whole family standing there on the airstrip, coming into focus as the plane landed, with eager smiles and waves–still, no. The parents of a classmate took us in their car instead–so of course I changed my expectation once more, this time thinking they were taking us to our house where the family would be, picture-perfect, waiting in front of our little home.

Instead we arrived at their house. Auntie Elaine (according to British habit, all family friends were “Auntie” and “Uncle” to us kids) finished up dinner preparations while we helped set the table. And then, instead of sitting down to dinner, she asked Helen and I to come and sit with her on the couch–”Anna, Helen–I have some really sad news . . . your Daddy went to heaven . . . ” Before the sentence was finished, I had burst into loud sobs, Helen looked at me and started crying, and Auntie Elaine and her daughter were both crying and hugging us.

I don’t remember any mention of the rest of the family at that point–nor did I wonder, as far as I can remember. The rest of the day, of the week, of the month, passed in a sort of a fog, in which my memories are clear but displaced, as if each memory was plucked from its proper place in the continuum of time and placed instead in some never never land of homeless moments.

I remember falling asleep with fitful dreams, waking up convinced I had dreamed reality, and that Daddy would walk in and comfort me any moment. I remember being reunited with my brothers, staring at Alex’s discolored and misshapen head, and carting Ian around carefully in his body cast, propping him up against walls . . . supporting him and holding his modesty blanket over his midsection as he pinned the tail on the donkey at his belated birthday party. I remember visiting Mom there in the Zambian hospital, horrified at the sight of my strong, active, beautiful mother lying there on the stretcher bed unable to move herself. At one point during a visit, the nurse had to turn her over so that she wouldn’t get a bed sore. As she did so, she let go of the sheet and mom was briefly exposed to us all in the room. I didn’t know whether to blush, sob, or scream–I wanted to just run away, to disappear forever into the endless, dreadfully beautiful African wilderness. I hated seeing mom like that, and dreaded the visits . . . and I hated myself for feeling that way, thinking there must be something wrong with me if I didn’t want to see my mother . . .

Somehow, time passed. My Daddy’s funeral passed in a blur of friends, strangers, languages I didn’t know, and wails I knew only too well. As soon as mom was strong enough to be transported, we were shipped to the U.S., where hospitalization and then physical rehab came for her. I hid in my books–in beautiful worlds of fantasy–to the extent that my grandmother still teases me for always having my “nose stuck in a book” as a child.

And eventually Mom was well enough to take over the care of the 4 of us again. I still don’t know for the life of me how she did it–a paraplegic supporting and caring for a home of her own and 4 not-always-angelic children. She did it well . . . she loved us well.

On this day, during my childhood, Mom beautifully commemorated the anniversary. She would buy what looked to me like hundreds of helium-filled balloons, bringing them home so that the house was bursting with balloons. Then she tied note cards to the string of each one, and told us to write notes on them–as many as we wanted, and whatever we wanted to say to a stranger. I remember writing things like “Jesus loves me this I know . . .” and “My Daddy died on this day, and he is now in heaven with God, because he loved God. I do too.” I wrote silly notes, but meaningful ones, longing, in all my childhood intensity, to somehow tell the world that I had a great Daddy, and that some day I would see him again.

I still catch myself, when I am still enough to listen to the deeper desires of my heart, craving moments of remembrance of my Daddy, and eagerly clasping to memory any tidbits about him that people from his past may be able to share with me. And thankfully my own mind clamped down firmly on all the memories I had of my times with him, out of a personal need for them and, I suspect, out of a nagging suspicion that someday, somehow, there would be a greater use for, outlet for, it all.

real life

November 24, 2019

I’ve developed a serious mole complex lately. I guess the year of hiding from the sun had caught up with me …I want sunshine again! Now that the winter chill has hit, in a rather abrupt manner, I find myself being drawn towards old habits. When I lived in Afghanistan, I thought of myself as a warmth-and-sunshine-needy soul, so the long months of bitter cold I knew to expect brought fear to my weather-wimpy soul. But, as so often happens, the reality of life turned out remarkably gentle compared to my amped up imaginings. The sun would be brilliant and strong on even the coldest and snowiest of days, so that I would sneak up to the semi-private rooftop of our house, bundle up a half of my body in winter gear so that I could bear leaving the other half exposed, and lay in the sun during my lunch breaks, alternating exposed limbs.
These days my life is far less outwardly exciting. I live in a southeastern countryside, own goats, and clean toilets and lunch tables as my day job.
For the past few weekends, the sun has peeked out beautifully for at least a portion of the precious little bit of daytime that Peter and I have together.
Yesterday we hoped for another nice day but instead we’re greeting with a cold and gray rain when we awoke. So we hid from the rain during the morning hours, resigning ourselves to a lack of a now once-a-week run (so maybe I’m the only one who actually wimped out …Peter boldly braved the treadmill). I intended to run but instead was drawn into a class that I had heard about but been too scared to try. It’s supposed to be a mix of yoga, pilates, and ballet. All three of these are things I want to be good at, and graceful in. But I am not. Turns out, the class was a wonderful experience. The conversation I had with a classmate lifted my spirits more than what I thought I needed could have. I thought I needed a day to be outside. I thought I needed to prove to myself that I could still run, though I fear I’ve just lost it. I thought I needed to be outside, soaking up the vitamin D that my body feels like it’s been craving.
As it turned out, a rainy morning exercise class with a dozen other women was, in fact, exactly what I really did need.
I spend my life clasping onto various ideals of who I am and who I think I should be. Why do I feel the need to do so? Good question. Because more often than not, reality is far better for me than illusions of the same.
I have always wrestled with the embarrassing awareness of my own self-centeredness. When I was a high schooler, I remember commenting to a friend that I didn’t know how to make myself act out of others-interest rather than self-interest. I knew that at the root of most of my actions was little to be proud of. That inner battle remains, a quarter of a century since then.
Many of my words have been a jumbled mess in my brain; this past week has been a frazzled one for me, in which the fear of the future prevents me from enjoying the present. I’ve wished for the ability to release it all from my head, and to put words to paper (or screen, as the case may be), but I’ve been held back by worries of randomness and nonsensical ramblings.
So be it. In the same way that reality is often better than my ideals of what life should be and how I should be, I guess the reality of my own randomness at the moment is better than waiting for some ideal of verbal perfection.
This is it.
This morning I attempted a 2-km sunrise jog. I interrupted myself, however, to take a series of photographs when I noticed the brilliance of the contrast as the sun half-hit the fall-colored treetops. I would stop to take a photo, jog a few steps, and then stop again because I thought I’d gotten to a better vantage point. I did this 10 times. The irony of it all was that the best view appeared when I got back to my own driveway.
This is it.

Not so cheery?

November 20, 2019

The unfortunate truth is that, so much as I have loved this venture into the wild world of janitorial work, there are moments in which chronicling custodian life must include the less-than-cheery moments. When I embarked upon this venture, a part of my reasoning was that I wanted to be a better person because of it. And I also wanted to make a sort of, frankly, prideful statement as I did it out of my own choice. But of course, the simple fact that I HAVE such a choice makes me a poor candidate for truly bearing witness to real life custodian work. Today something happened that gave me pause: I’m still not sure how the event really impacted me so, for now, I will simply relay the event as it occurred…
During my main flurry of the day, in the final lunch cleanup marathon, I was called out of the lunchroom to attend to an attention-needy bathroom. It was, suffice it to say, an unpleasant neediness.
With my back to the door, the cleaning cart propping it open, I was tackling the mess when 7th grade lined up outside their classroom door, just across the hallway from me. In the midst of the chattering, I hear a comment spoke softly enough that it was clearly not expected to be heard by me. But I hear it—a tittering, sing-songy, “Miss Jan-i-terrr.”
I turn around and see some of the students watching me while 2 boys face the wall, apparently giggling. “Yes?” I ask. One girl, sounding admirably bold, nudges one of the boys. “Hey-she answered you!”
At this point the teacher has come and, suspecting the scenario, goes into instant action. She takes the arm of the boy being spoken to by his classmate, brings him over to me, and asks, “Was he being disrespectful? What did he say?”
Though there was little to actually relay, I tell her. She then responds in a way that I later go and compliment her for: she has him introduce himself to me and ask me my name. When I have the later private conversation, she admits to me that she questioned her own reaction. Though it seemed to me to be a thoughtful and trained reaction, she says that she hadn’t known what to do … but that she was angry.
At the end of the day, it turned out reasonably well. He was asked to come and help me with the most labor-intensive part of the day’s cleanup, and I enjoyed his working company. As for what he took from the interaction, I have no way of knowing: his assistance was subdued and somewhat stoic. Processing continues on my part. Perhaps I will have more to say about it later. But for now, I will simply “illustrate” this post with a photo Peter took of me and the goats this past weekend. I was feeling the love, you might say …love aided by the fact that I held tasty banana peels in my hand 😉

the chronicles-kind of

October 11, 2019

It’s the small things.
This week I started a usual “custodian chronicles“ post, but did so half heartedly. I kept trying, in fits and starts, and kept getting interrupted . . . by small things.
And this morning it occurred to me that, for all the wildness that this custodian job has been for me, as I settle into the routine of it, I find it not all that different from any other sort of job – not all that different from life.
It’s the small things that mess you up: the last glove taken from the last box in the closet. You realize that the supply list was turned in last week, and no one realized that gloves should have been on it. In this sort of work, latex gloves are not an afterthought…they are a necessity.
But it’s also the small things that make it all worthwhile. The interruptions. The little one who gets a splinter at the outside lunch table and needs someone to walk her to the nurse’s office.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, to break the silence. “A little,” she nods. I smile at her six-year-old courage, nodding “Yeah-it will.” She smiles back.
The next day I see her in the hallway and I pause. “How is your hand?” She shows me the reddened spot where the splinter had been. “My nana pulled it out, “ she tells me. “Did it hurt?” I ask. “A little,” she says. I smile. “Yeah-it will.” She smiles back.

*photo comes from earlier in the week, when I wrote this first, and only, note for the weekly “chronicles”:

Mulch can grow on you. Before you picture pine straw shooting out of my head, I should explain that my first round of it, for work purposes, at least, was done in our recent run of blazing hot days, using bales of straw that had been left to accumulate dust and critters over the course of a summer. I spent that day sweating, sneezing, and sniffling my way through the process.
But today the day was cool (so much so that my nose – large and prone to chill as it is – was having fond memories of my New Hampshire face covering winter cap. With newly cold air and newly purchased mulch, I spent the morning inhaling fresh pine and fresh air, and marveling at this novelty of changing seasons.


October 7, 2019

“So how was your birthday?” Good …isn’t that what I’m supposed to answer? But what if life doesn’t care if it’s your birthday or not? What if you get a “surprise-you owe us!” bill from the insurance company, after enough phone call and letter writing time already spent so as to assume it was taken care of…
And what if your plan for a peaceful evening with your husband gets interrupted by a well-intentioned, but less-than-welcome banging on the door? (No-our goats are not roaming the streets. They are right there in the field grazing. But thank you for letting us know!)
I started to feel angsty and how-dare-you-universe-y about what I wanted, and didn’t get, for my birthday.
But you know, minor annoyances are, well, minor. In the grand scheme of things, what I DID get for my 40th far outweighs anything I did not.
I got a day-of series of videos from my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew. My sister’s usual beauty wowed me, and her voice made me ache for her presence. Her boys serenaded me and sent a series of requests. We dutifully videoed ourselves and photographed the attendees of my birthday party (which were, at the time, our 3 furry friends). They responded with follow-up videos, and a new list. Our auntie and uncle tasks are looming 😉
I got a day-after full of festivities orchestrated by my mother, with a church family party to start the day and a cozy family dinner to end it.
I got a Saturday of freedom from work to galavant about with a best friend of a husband who is possibly even more nerdy than I am …and who gets a similar pleasure from randomly amusing, outwardly boring excursions (“Oh-let’s go to Walmart and I’ll buy beer so I can show off my ID … do I ‘appear to be under the age of 40,’ and so get to be carded?”).
And I could not help but remember, with a sobering dose of reality, that last year this day was spent in a hospital, recovering from a terrifying brush with the nearness of my own mortality.
So yes, I have just turned 40. But I have a sneaking suspicion that this year holds little to fear, and much to joy-fully anticipate.

1. Sweeping a football field (not to be confused with “dressing” it, as I had mistakenly called it before learning what the job actually entailed) is significantly more relaxing than sweeping a crowded cafeteria
2. From a 3rd grader, as he watches me spray down a graffiti-style series of math equations from a hallway desk that is infamous for such “artwork”: “Sometimes I try to wipe up some of that. To make your life easier. You guys get paid to wipe off desks; but sometimes it gets boring …”
3. Somehow I doubt that the School Custodian Manual will include a clause addressing “How to handle a dead bird if found sitting on a cafeteria table”

Scent of a season

September 30, 2019

Counting down to 40 …6 days.
We have a routine of Sunday dinners with mom and Lou. I should probably first clarify here that, as literal neighbors, we interact with them on a daily basis (and I oftentimes get the still-giddy-feeling-treat to work alongside mom, if she takes a sub job at my school …I find myself seeking out excuses to go see “my mama” during the school day. And she has been known to create messes that require a radio call to summon the custodian). But the privilege of an evening to just sit down and enjoy a meal together is one that remains, well, just that-a privilege. And a blessing, that I have not yet grown accustomed to in a way that would numb the beauty of it. So tonight, after dinner, the boys went out to take care of the chickens. Mom and I cleaned up a bit in the kitchen, and she mentioned that she had started making vanilla sugar. “Have you heard of it?” she asked. Sure, I’d heard of it. She pointed to the jar in the corner and so I picked it up and, at her invitation, opened the lid. My reaction at this point was, the best I can describe it, meant for grownup eyes alone. Lou and Peter walked in as I was standing there, eyes closed, about to take another hit. Sighing happily, I warned them that they might need to leave the women alone for a bit … in the throes of a scent-gasm. Mom and I had a hearty, heart-filling laugh, and it occurred to me that this moment might just be one of the happy delights of this season of life. Autumn has always been a favorite time of year for me and now, coming to it for the first time in many years (about 15 years now of life in parts of the world where no such season, as we think of it, exists), I cannot take it for granted. Rather than fear what is to come, known and unknown, in this moment I delight in a jar of vanilla sugar and a bit of belly laughter with my mama.

1.When turning on a school sprinkler system for the first time, one would be wise to determine, beforehand, in which direction the water will burst, upon turning the lever.
2. If one is gifted a pair of cute but impractical cat-scratching gloves, and if one has not unloaded one’s car to remove them, they can come in handy as quite-practical gardening gloves.
3. When asked to respond to a bathroom mess, the words “I’m sorry” tacked on to the end of an otherwise normal request can be safely assumed to be a bad sign.
4. Any given day may include any number of wild “things” needing to be taken care of …

*this week’s list is short one item, but I’m considering one of its items a sort of a two-for-one ;-)

1. Every school day includes a race (a half marathon may be an appropriate analogy, considering my previous reference to the daily scrubber routine). The last thing I do each day is clean up after the final round of student lunchtimes. Dependent on them remaining on schedule, this means that my cleanup is some days more rushed than others. Picture day, for instance…the final group of students in for lunch that day also happened to have their photo time scheduled not-quite-right-after-lunch. The logical solution for their teachers was to simply extend their lunchtime. My clock was ticking … and the daily pain in my foot was increasing its intensity with each moment. I was anxious for my own clock out hour, & had to repeat my daily comment to my coworker that, “I can’t finish on time today!” I have begun to say it every day, so that he can roll his eyes and remind me that I said the same thing yesterday, and somehow managed … But this time I was serious! The kids finally filed out and I gritted my teeth and clenched my jaw for a super-speed scrubbing. I somehow managed. Rolling the scrubber towards the closet where we would empty out the dirty water and refill it with the next day’s cleaning solution, I saw that my coworker had already opened the door. Instead of leaving it parked outside as I often do, at which point he takes over, I backed it in and brought it right up to the sink. My coworker was now nearby, so I stepped out and, to make sure he knew that I hadn’t already finished with the machine, I said, “I haven’t unfilled it.” He looked at me quizzically for a moment, then asked “You mean you didn’t empty it?” “Uh …yeah. I guess that would be the actual word for it.” I shook my head at my inadvertent creativity and sighed. “I have lost the ability to speak English, & my foot is about to fall off. I think I’m done now.” Perhaps expecting some sort of sympathy, I waited a moment for a response. He simply shrugged. “Welcome to our world,” he commented, putting his head down and returning to the task at hand.
2. In the world of school custodians and food service workers, one’s ideas of appropriate times of day to be done can shift according to one’s, er, shift. Today I went into the food prep area to get the cleaning solution I use for final table and bench scrubbing. Seeing me, the food service worker apologized that she had gotten distracted and had forgotten, “this evening,” to mix it the solution ahead of time. “No problem,” I assured her. Then I added, “And I love the fact that you also think of this final stretch of the day as ‘evening’ … by 8 I’m pretty much in bed already: 5 o’clock comes early!” She shook her head in a silent, smiling agreement.
3. Ever tried hunting for a diamond in a mop head stack? A teacher list hers yesterday and, as her room houses the washer and dryer we use for mop heads, the newly washed ones are one of the possible searching spots. Describing its shape to me, she admitted that “it would be a miracle” to find it but, well, you never know. She told me the story of a “fairy cross” she lost for 8 years and then found again, laying on the ground by the fence she had walked in and out of, countless times, over the course of those years. “If I find it, I find it. If I don’t, I don’t,” she shrugged, and smiled, thanking me for helping.
4. In between table cleanup, I was standing by the cafeteria wall, watching the activity while waiting for the next group to finish. One 1st grader caught my eye as he pounded on the top of his milk carton. His face reddening with frustration, I began to wonder why the carton was so hard to crush. He increased his focus, putting it next to him in the bench, and using his knee for more force. Still, the carton held strong. I began to silently root for him, Wilkins the stubborn carton to crack. At this point I was distracted by something else happening and turned away from the show. A few minutes later, he struts past me and tosses the carton into the garbage. On his way back to his seat he paused next to me, looked up, and, hands raised with exasperation, announced that, “my milk carton just exploded!” Up until now, I had assumed the carton was empty all along. This new bit of information had me stunned for a moment, as I wondered why, if he had been unsuccessful in his goal (the carton was still intact), he was so intent on making a mess that he had to go out of his way to claim that he had. I decided to call his bluff. “No, it didn’t,” I matter if factly responded. “You tried to smash it.” Clearly not expecting this turn of events, he started to speak, changed his mind, and instead scurried back to his seat. For the rest of his lunchtime, I tried to maintain a stern face as I saw him periodically look over to see where I was and then quickly revert his gaze with a sobered and studious expression.
5. Told ya I’d get up there

1.The dumpster is not my friend. This metal latch + my head, in lunch-rush-high-speed = 🤕
2.A tennis ball on a stick is magic. Apply pressure to black scuff marks on tile floors and, poof, offending spot disappears! When shown this trick, I blurted “that makes my day!” And then, when I promptly erased my first spot, I hollered “I did it!” with a gleeful giggle.
3.Gone fishin’?…cause you never know when you might be summoned to rescue a spoon from a toilet. *presumably, no visual necessary

4. Sometimes I feel like Amelia bedelia. My boss said he needed 4 each of 20 by 20 & 20 by 25. He was pointing at a large box labeled as such at the time. I roamed the storage closets until I located 4 boxes and begin carrying them, 1 by 1. When I arrived at the ladder by the roof with one of the boxes in my arms, reporting to him that I was unable to find 4 of each, he proceeded to take 4 of the filters out of the large box. No, he did not mean 8 boxes; he meant 8 single filters.
5. The roof is my friend. I have not yet climbed the ladder … but was promised that there is no “sexism” in work roles around here (not quite sure how that actually applies in this case but, ah well-I’ll take it). I will get to work on the roof. High places + me = 😆