Rafter dance

Working against time, Ref pulled in neighbors, friends, a helper and the occasional building owner to finish the plywood before the roof guys arrived with their paper.

They were set to get there at 2, and as the clock ticked, the saw buzzed, the nail gun banged and the sweat flowed.

Measure. Muscle the sheets onto the sawhorses. Mark. Snap a line. Cut. Lift. Way up. Jockey. Nail: BANG.

Oh, and by the way, time here and here to wrestle more plywood to the second floor, to reset a shifting scaffold and to make a few brilliant cuts on a board to form two crickets, to guide rainwater on a swift stream to earth at the lines where roofs merge.

Thus through the morning, and into the afternoon.

Of course, the roof crew didn't show at 2, or at 2:30, or at 3, which came as no surprise to anyone who's ever dealt with a roof crew. But if they had been there at 3, they would have seen the sunlight narrowing for the last time on that roof, the aperture to the sky shrinking, board by board, to the final 10-inch triangle, one last little skylight ... closed. BANG. BANGBANGBANGBANG.