While sweeping the back deck, I noted several shards of broken concrete. Leaves and pine needles were the focus of my attack. The wind storm left plenty. Yesterday, I picked up tree branches; today, I took on clearing out the detritus from the driveway and the decks.
Naturally, perplexed by the discovery, I picked up the chunk and examined it closely. I do believe I scratched my head.
“Concrete?” I said it out loud. Ellie’s ears perked up momentarily, probably wondering if I might have said, “Come for a treat.”
I am not currently taking applications for new enemies, so I couldn’t imagine someone throwing concrete at the house. I looked up to the roof, the only possibility as my deck was six feet from the ground.
One side of the piece was flat and finished, the other rough. It took about ten seconds to determine that the parts came from the chimney. Merely minutes after marveling that I had never lost a shingle, I discovered the shard.
The crown or cap on my chimney was clearly the source of my amalgamated displeasure, and I try to avoid roof work. Knowing that if the entire cap was found to be cracked, it meant that I would be dealing with water intrusion shortly—winter is here.
I called my good friend, Bubba. His name is not Bubba, nor does he look like one. He’s a retired cop who was the master roofer responsible for my perfectly pristine shingles in the face of seventy-mile-an-hour winds. His close friends merely call him Bubba, but his name is Bob.
I dialed him up while standing with the shard in my hand. He answered on the second ring.
“TC, baby, what can Bubba do for you?”
“I found concrete on my deck, Bubba. I worry that the cap on my chimney is cracked, and the wind likely took off bigger pieces, but I’m holding a decent-sized chunk in my hand.”
“That’s not good, TC. I’m on a roof in Bangor, but I’m almost done. I’ll be down in an hour.”
“Thanks, Bubba. I just want to avoid water in the walls. Maybe you can seal it off for the winter.”
“See you soon.”
Forty-five minutes later, my phone rang, “TC, I’m in the backyard; meet me on the deck.” Bob was already passing a ladder up and over the rail.
“Stand on the bottom of that ladder, TC.” And with that, he shot up to the roof and stood beside my chimney ten seconds later.
“There’s a little ice on the shingles; catch me if I come down.”
I watched him run his hand across the topping on the chimney.
“You are correct, young man; there is some slight cracking with some scale missing. Probably what you have in your hand. I think I did this crown, didn’t I?”
“You did, Bubba, a long time ago.”
“It’s all good for now. I’ll be down in the spring, and we can chop out the loose stuff and tighten it all up. It’ll hold fine till then.”
Bubba came down the ladder as fast as he’d gone up. He had two more roofs to work on today. We took a few minutes to talk about the old days, his son, my son, and a few other things.
As usual, he refuses to take any payment. I do know that Bubba Bait is old-school Budweiser—in bottles. I’ll leave a case on his doorstep soon. He’s the one who calls Budweiser “Bubba Bait.” The rest of us blessed with his friendship know the only way we can repay him is to leave him a beer and run before he throws it back in your car.
The better news about his skillset is that Bubba was one of the finest cops to wear the uniform. If he’s your friend, he is a friend for life and won’t put up with anyone badmouthing you. People find that out quickly when they speak out of turn.
If you were a kid with less than much on Bubba’s police beat—typically on the east side of Bangor—he’d watch out for you.
I cannot count on two hands the number of new guitars and stingray bicycles that Bob delivered to parents who didn’t have anything to give to their kids on one Christmas or another.
The thing is, Bubba secretly delivered the gifts to the parents so that they could give them to their children. He wanted no part of being noticed for what he was up to.
A lot of us noticed. We also learned not to bring it up to him. His gift was to help other people help their kids when times were tough, wanting nothing in return, not even a thank-you from the child.
Frankly, I don’t know many people who personify selflessness like Bubba. I’ve met many people in my sixty trips around the sun.
An old quote says, “A gift should not flatter the giver.” I think of that every time I see Bubba.
He transferred his kindness to others so they could feel as special as the kid playing the guitar or riding a bike. And all along, those kids thought that dad or mom—or Santa, brought it to them. The rest of us knew, and we kept our mouths shut.
Santa was on my roof today. And it’s highly likely that he’s already on someone else’s roof as we speak.
That’s all I’ve got.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*If you celebrate any one of the many national holidays in December, do it well. I’m a celebrator of Christmas—and if you are, I hope it’s merry and bright.
Thanks for following the blogs this year. Thanks for buying my books, donating to the BuyMeACoffee fund, reading my missives on the Facebooks, or whatever you do to support my second career. I appreciate all of you. I promise a new book in 2024 come heck or high water, it’s happening. I hope you’ll read it when it shows up. Be safe, be kind, but most of all, be you; you are perfect and enough. I think the creator had a plan for all of us, if you think I’m wrong, we will still get along just fine.
Tim Cotton