Here’s a funny story.
In a former life, 40 years ago now, I lived in a 1960s raised ranch in southern New England, where winter nor’easters often bring heavy snow. The day after one particular storm dumped almost three feet, I noticed that icy water was leaking in around several window frames on the north side of the house.
The cause? Ice dams.
When heat from a poorly insulated house rises through the attic space, it causes snow on the upper, now-warmer part of the roof to melt. That liquid water flows underneath the snow and then freezes in the cold gutters. Snow continues to melt and water continues to flow, but it’s trapped (dammed) by the solid block of ice in the gutters.
It backs up under shingles, comes down through the walls and leaks inside. Not a good thing.
I called a roofing contractor, who sent a crew out to rake the snow pack off of the roof and bust-up the ice dams. In the process, shingles were damaged and the roof had to be repaired.
The contractor, apologetically, offered to re-shingle my house for the cost of materials alone — a real bargain, which I accepted. Since it was the dead of winter, the roofing crew didn’t do the job until May.
The day they came out, the crew leader misread the address on the work order. His guys spent an entire day putting a new roof on my vacationing neighbor’s house.
I did get my own new roof, of course, a week later. And the crew had to come back and re-shingle my neighbor’s house again, to his satisfaction.
I don’t suppose any of that was funny to the contractor. My neighbor and I had a good laugh, though.
Now here’s a not-so-funny story.
Nature called Smudge and Smudge called me wicked-early Monday morning, as usual. After our regular routine, I flopped on the love seat and watched my rekindled fire grow. Reaching for my mug of coffee, I noticed a small puddle of water on the plywood floor under the end table.
Beyond the puddle was a rivulet, a trail leading under the hearth in the northwest corner of the cabin. My heart sank — that’s where the water line comes in.
A frozen and burst pipe? After all I’d done to prevent that?
Wait — I’d already used the water by that point yesterday. Full pressure. I ran the kitchen faucet again, for five minutes, just to be sure. Fine. I checked the wall and the floor near the water line. I went outside and looked for evidence of a leak. Fine.
It took most of a second cup of coffee for me to formulate a theory about what might be going on. I bundled up, grabbed my shovel and went outside to look at the northwest corner of the cabin.
This is what I found:
Because there are no gutters, I’d initially written off the possibility of ice dams as the cause of water intrusion. But all those oh-so-pretty icicles, with an assist from wind out of the northwest — on a wall that actually is insulated, and therefore colder on the outside — directed runoff straight down the wall.
Ice dammed at the bottom edge of the T1-11 siding. Capillary action pulled it in between the base of the wall and the floor. And that produced the water I saw inside.
It was the only place on the exterior wall that happened. Regardless, I used the shovel to knock down every single icicle hanging from the edge of the roof. I also chipped away the damned dam on the northwest corner.
Smudge and I live in an unfinished structure. There will be problems. I knew that going in. What I don’t know is when I’ll be able to afford to finish what I started here. In the meantime, identifying problems and coming up with solutions is the name of the game.
Before the first flakes flew, I had a conversation with Jeff about him plowing the road — just a neighborly thing he does and enjoys doing. He guessed he’d probably wait ’til Monday. He also said he’d be glad to pull the blade over my driveway, which he does for several other neighbors.
The only tracks on our road since Friday were my Ranger’s, when I drove down to pick up the hair dryer Sunday. Nobody else ventured out for 72 hours. But shortly after 1pm yesterday, Jeff made his first pass down The Mountain on his tractor.
It was about an hour later when he returned and headed up the driveway.
“Y’know,” he said in an exasperated tone, “I’ve plowed a lot of snow. I’ve plowed three feet of snow. But I think this is the toughest plowing I’ve ever done.”
Sleet on Saturday night and a round of sub-zero cold had turned once-powdery snow the consistency of concrete. It didn’t roll up into drifts in front of his blade — it came up in chunks.
All the more reason for my gratitude.
He made a couple of runs over the north end of my driveway. That’s all I needed. And he made the road passable once again.
It’s all part of livin’ this life. Neighbors. Hard work. Patience. Gratitude. There’s no other place I’d rather be.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable