May 8, 1976. Dad is on the roof of the house, laying asphalt shingles. He can drive a roofing nail with one whack of the hammer, almost as fast as a pneumatic nail gun.
He has one good leg, one leg no bigger around than the bone, and a barrel chest from years of crutches and heaving his wasted lower leg around. Polio struck him the year before the vaccine was discovered, and in those days ADA wasn’t a thing. Thus, in his words, he was “too stupid to know he was crippled, he just always took more time to get anywhere or do anything.”
And so, there he was scooting around on the roof that summer day, laying shingles on the house he and my mother were building. Growing up, I knew he was different. I used to try to teach him how to “walk normal.” But that was the extent of it. Sure never dawned on him or me that he was at all disabled. He’s a great reminder to me of why the term “challenged” applies so much better than “disabled.”
I have no idea how on earth he even made it up a ladder onto that roof.
I was 6. The only thing I knew about the house was that it promised to be a big step up from the shack we homesteaded in and I was assured it would have indoor plumbing. No more outhouses!
I managed to finagle my way onto the roof, something that my parents rarely allowed since the day my brother fell through the ceiling and almost had a circular saw land on his head.
Dad nailed shingles in place at a steady, rhythmic pace, and I revelled in the vastness of the desert surrounding us. In the distance someone had begun building a barn for their own homestead. Apart from that, there was just sage and sky.
Looking east from the roof of the house.
Mom and Dad bought our place for $200 per acre in 1973. Dad drilled the well with an ancient rig he’d picked up somewhere, and they dreamed of farm-life in the country with an orchard, gardens, and open air. My grandfather came to visit from South-Western Oregon, where trees are their version of “weeds” and the major weather challenges are excessive rain and flooding. Nothing like Red Mountain.
Grandpa stood in the yellow cheatgrass and looked around him. “You paid how much?” he asked. “$200 an acre!” said Dad, proud of his prowess in getting a decent price on open ground. “You were robbed” grandpa stated flatly.
I have a bazillion of my parents’ journals from over the years. Their record-keeping was quite good. Dad even started recording the high and low temps for each day, which I swear I’ll be logging in a spreadsheet one day…
Anyway, thought you’d enjoy this view of the area from back in the day. My gosh I love it here,
