FOR THE HAIL OF IT

It’s been raining hail all night. The clunk clink, rat a tat tat drumming on my roof is driving me wild. I need a hot cocoa, put on my slippers and shrug myself into my old-fashioned, but cozy, blue chenille robe. It has become part of me.

The kitchen is next to the stairway. Recently I had an electrician come in to put a light switch there so I can light the kitchen before I go in. It’s great. Right before I step into the kitchen I see the floor looks like a river, an icy cold one. The window over the sink is now glassless. Shreds of the gauze curtain fly in and out the wide open space. I back out, afraid of unseen glass shards. As I stand there alone, frightened, worried, the last pieces of the curtain are pulled outside. The wind has changed directions.

At the bottom of the stairs I cock my head, listen for the sleet on the roof and hear nothing. It has stopped. I look towards the sky, grateful to only need repairs not a casket.

The sun fights hard to brighten the early morning hours but there are hundreds, thousands of black, grayish clouds that beat him into submission. From the dry basement I bring up what feels like a ton of old newspapers, papers that I have meant to put outside for recycling for well over a year. Now I’m glad I was lazy. My feet are going to be sopping wet with or without the newspapers. It’s one, two, three and I plod in, laughing as I throw whole sections at a time into the floor flood.

It is still gloomy although it is 8 a.m., magic time. From my stack of business cards in the small table next to the sofa is my insurance company’s name and agent. Damn I’m good. It is right where it should be after ‘Hospitals’. I dial. I dial again, and again. The line is busy, busy. By 9 my finger and I have had it with the re-dial button.

With my car unscathed in the garage I take a ride to Metro Insurance Building. It’s only 20 miles away. Tree limbs block some streets. Saws hum, throwing the dust into the wind and on to my windshield. The windshield wiper is mired in it. I can’t see. I jam on my brakes and pull right towards the curb. Before getting to the curb I bump into a dark brown Lexus and give it a nasty bump. It was empty and I wasn’t hurt.Fortunately I have scrap paper and a pen always handy in the glove compartment. My note is short, my name and phone number. ‘I’m the culprit’ I write. That $500 ding is going to be $2000 when Lexus puts it to ‘Mr. Absent.’

Ah, my cell beckons. Metro is still busy, busy. I’m p-o- ed, scrape the rest of the sawdust off and continue on my way. From the lobby it sounds like Christmas time. Bells are ringing, jingalinging from every office. Mr. Curtis, my agent, is busy and will see me shortly. His shortly is an hour longly. That is plenty of time for my ire to turn to fire. Yes, I stay the course and wait, make my report about the window and then have to see Mr. Grady about the small car accident I had.

With no further trouble I reach home and go directly to the Yellow pages, find ‘Handy Man available day or night’ and I call. He is busy, can’t come until Friday. It is Wednesday and the window has to be replaced, the floor cleaned and waxed. ‘Sorry lady.’ Mr. Curtis is sending The Floor Man to take care of the floor damage on Friday. There is nothing I can do about the delay except eat out with friends and try not to cry.

The sun is shining. Its sunny yellow face peeks out from a mile of long, skinny gray clouds. That’s the instant I feel a change coming. My two large trash cans are upside down and empty near the alley. My two white doves are there, sitting on the lids, cooing to each other. Mr.Floor Man rings my doorbell. Johnny Flore tells me he had a cancellation in my neighborhood and can do my work then and there. He asks, ‘O.K.?, Ma am?’ It’s more than o.k., Mr. Flore. Go to it.’ I smile and wink to him and at him, then add with an even bigger smile on my face, ‘You can ring my bell any time you have the inclination.’

No more smiles, no more words. Saturday evening he knocks AND buzzes and comes in.