Of all life’s blessings, the roof over my head is one for which I rarely give thanks.
Roofs, after all, are so commonplace they are to be expected. And they’re dull. Very dull. Usually gray or brown, maybe black. Made with shingles — the ultimately hum-drum material, or maybe cedar or tile. Installed by competent, height-defying, tight-lipped pros who appear like flies and disappear a week later, leaving a few stray nails in the yard.
But mundane or no, without a roof, every day is a bad-hair day. Or a bad day in general.
I woke at 3 a.m. last night, thankful, so thankful for the roof over my head.
It was pouring down rain. Literally pouring, like God had a bucket he couldn’t wait to empty. Lightning. Thunder. A storm for the ages. But unlike many nighttime storms observed from the comfort of the bed in my sturdy house, this storm came to the campground where I slept in a sturdy, yes, but relatively insubstantial camper.
One never goes camping but it rains. Or at least that’s how it is with me. Most camping rainstorms are day-long drizzly affairs that make everything damp and never stop until everything is packed up and you’re headed home.
This storm, however, was more hard-nosed, like a pissed off cop with a gun at a pool party (kidding! all right, already! I know all cops are not angry and overbearing! It’s a joke!).
In any case, this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill storm. And we were camping next to a river.
My Beloved’s cell phone awakened us before the drenching rain did. It warned of flash flooding.
All I could think about was a flash flood filling the valley, and us, bobbing down the river in the camper until we were splintered against a bridge pier (thank you, Voice of Doom, but our flash flooding came in the form of big mud puddles, not a jökulhlaup).
That’s when the roof started leaking. Drip, drip, drip. A persistent sort of leak. Drip, drip, drip. Reconnaissance revealed the drops were coming from a light fixture (uh-oh). Drip, drip, drip.
Sounds restful, huh?
But actually, I said a little prayer of thanks for the roof.
Because 30 yards away, a family went to bed last night.
In a tent.
I didn’t care how fiberglassy our roof was. It wasn’t canvas!