Roofing It--Again

     “I’ll never do that again!”

      Never say “never.”  You would think that a person who has spent nearly seven decades on the planet would have learned never to say “Never again.”

      The last time I uttered those two words was probably in the Fall of 2012.  I finished a roof in Atwood for a friend, Floyd.  I had reluctantly agreed to do that. A year or so earlier I had done a roof for Floyd’s nephew, Tom.  I guess Floyd thought I had done a good job on Tom’s house, so he prevailed upon me and I caved.  It was a fairly easy roof to do.

      That vow would soon be broken as I agreed to put a roof on an old one-room schoolhouse sitting in a farmyard near Achilles.  (That’s right, there is a place in Northwest Kansas called Achilles, only it’s not pronounced uh-KILL-ease like your tendon or the Greek hero of the Iliad.  It is pronounced uh-CHILL-us.) Like our own farm shop, the old schoolhouse had been moved from its original site and converted to a farm shop. 

       The school’s interior held saws, grinders, a drill press, other equipment necessary for a wood-and-metal-working shop.  The walls were covered with stamped metal such as you see on the ceilings of old buildings.  I’ve never seen walls covered thus.  The metal paneling was still in good shape, too, considering that it has been used as a shop for years.

     The old shop deserved a new roof.  Besides, it was a very simple roof to do.  The only protuberance was a brick chimney on one end of the roof.  No vent pipes, no skylights or valleys.  The only cutting was ripping the last piece to fit.

     All three of these roofs were metal.  I was able to do all three roofs because I had the help of Joe, a former student.  Joe, in a previous career, had been a lugger in a beef plant in Garden City.  Prior to that he had been a football player and a weightlifter.  Joe could lift anything that wasn’t tied down.  Lugging a half of beef around the cutting floor was nothing for him.  He insisted on doing all the heavy lifting during our three roof jobs, which was a great help to me.

     Joe loved tearing things down, or up. He was great at ripping off the old shingles.  The only problem was he didn’t like the heights or the steep slopes that much.  Tearing off wasn’t so bad because there is always gap in the sheeting or some way to get a sure foothold. 

     The old schoolhouse had two or three layers of wood shingles which probably went back to the turn of the century.  I am sure the dirt we uncovered went back to the dustbowl days of the 1930’s.  It was absolutely the dirtiest roof I have ever had the fun of tearing off.  To make matters worse, we had the misfortune to choose two of the windiest days of that Spring to tear off the old shingles and put down the fabric. 

     The dust would fly up into our faces.  The thin old wood shingles would follow the dust, into our faces, all over the farmyard.  When we cleaned up after we were done tearing off, we spent over an hour in the alfalfa field south of the farmyard picking up wooden shingles.  I know we didn’t get the half of them either.  Some poor cows probably had to spend the next winter sorting the cedar chunks out of their daily hay rations.

      We made a temporary end gate out of a sheet of plywood in the old Chevrolet truck.  The sixteen foot bed with 42 inch sides was stuffed full with the shingles from that one room schoolhouse. When I went to dump the load at the local landfill, the hoist wouldn’t raise the bed, so I emptied the entire load by hand.  Later, I learned the hoist had leaked out all its oil.  A gallon of oil would have saved me a lot of work.

     Joe and I put the new roof on the schoolhouse in pretty shorty order, with the only hang up being the “roofjack” around the old brick chimney.  I thought sure I had done my last roof.

    Then we bought the Loveland house.  Our building inspector took some pictures of the roof while doing his pre-purchase inspection.  The insurance company asked to see the building inspector’s report.  Before they would insure our house, we had to send them a “streetview” snapshot of the roof.  They insured us with the caveat that the roof was near the end of its life.  That was their way of saying that when we went to reroof, don’t call them.

     We did get a break on the price of the house for the nearly-expired roof, but if I had to do it over, I would offer the asking price with the stipulation that the seller provide a new roof.  However, at the time, we were tired of house-hunting and afraid someone would come along and better our offer.  So here we are, a year later with the same ancient roof.

    All over the cul-de-sac this summer and fall, signs sprang up in front yards advertising local roofers.  Following the signs’ appearance came truckloads of shingles on flatbeds with conveyor belt arms.  It took the trucks longer to maneuver into position where the conveyor arm could reach the roof than it did for the two-man crew to send the shingles up to the rooftop.

    Two or three days later, along would come a crew of four or five guys and by nightfall, the old roof would be gone and the new roof would be installed.  It came to pass that there was only one old roof left in the cul-de-sac: ours.  Not that I had been sitting idly by all this time.  Actually, I had been ruminating since we bought the house in October 2014.

      I wanted a metal roof, but I knew to get that, I would have to do it myself, for two reasons.  For some reason, even though the materials for a metal roof cost very little more than the materials for an asphalt roof, roofing contractors charge two or three thousand dollars more to install a metal roof.  Charging more for labor doesn’t make much sense because in most cases a metal roof goes on much faster than putting up a bunch of individual shingles.  In addition to the higher price, as I watched the crews shingle the neighbors’ roofs, I uttered such blasphemies as, “I’ll bet they get called back to redo that,” and other similar disparaging remarks.  I couldn’t really trust a roofer to do a metal roof correctly.            

     There were some hurdles to be cleared before I could take on the job myself, one being as a doctor recently suggested to me when I called on him about an eye problem, that I had enjoyed too many birthdays.  The bigger problem, however, was the homeowners association.  Would they allow a metal roof? 

    As the new roofs sprang up in the neighborhood, so did roof salespersons.  One day a lady called me and said she saw me up on my roof.  “Are you thinking about a new roof?” she asked.  Why yes I am.  She would be happy to visit with me.  I said I was thinking about a metal roof and I was thinking of doing it myself.  She assured me her company could do a metal roof, but I had better check with the HOA.  She sounded a bit incredulous.

     I assured her that I had considered the HOA , and the reason I was up on my roof was to measure, figure the cost, and send a proposal to the HOA.If they rejected a metal roof, I would be in the market for an asphalt one. She would call me twice more.  I still had not heard from the HOA the last time she called.  Another fellow caught the Goodwife when I was not home.  He followed up with her at least three times.  Finally, all calls stopped.

      To prepare my proposal to the HOA, I visited the ABC Supply company at their Fort Collins branch.  I groaned as I pulled up in front of their door.  A big sign said beside the door read, “This is not a retail business.  You will need to work with a dealer or contractor to purchase from this store.”  

     “Bein’s as how I had went this far” (to quote a graduation speaker we once had), I decided to go in and have a little talk with them.  When I was in the siding business, I got many an advertisement from ABC wanting my business.  If push came to shove, I could open an account.

     Jason, the Walt Weiss look-alike manager, said I could go through Lowe’s or Home Depot.  I said I guess I could go to Lowe’s.  Jason groaned, glanced at me, said, “Lowe’s.”  Pause.  “I’ll work with you, but it will have to be a strictly cash deal.”

      “Check or credit card?” I asked.  He was fine with either.  So I took two brochures, one showing the styles of raised-rib roofing available, the second showing various colors.  Both pamphlets had pictures of nice houses with metal roofs.  Yes, there were a few barns and sheds, too.  Maybe the HOA people would get the right picture.

     I filled out an architecture committee application necessary before doing any exterior work and included the pamphlets with our choice of roof style and  color sample prominently circled, and put it into the mail.  It went to Denver. 

      A few days later, next-door-neighbor Bryan called upon us.  It turns out he is on the HOA’s architecture committee.  He had my application, the one I sent to Denver.  He asked me a few questions about what I planned to do.  I explained as well as I could.  I dug out the computer and the thumb drive and showed him pictures of the farm roofs.  The Goodwife mentioned the mansion on a lake north of us with a raised rib metal roof.

      Brian told us the architectural committee used to have two members, but the lady had just resigned, so he is the architecture committee.  He said he didn’t see any problem.  A few days later, I got an email from the HOA head woman with an attachment containing my application and the notice it had been approved.

      Next thing to do: get a building permit.  That could be done mostly by email.  It took three tries before I understood I had to put an exact dollar amount on the total project cost.  Then I had to report to the city building office and pay the bill--$261.54.  They charge a percentage, like a sales tax, on the project cost.  I had to have two inspections, a midroof inspection with the job somewhere between 25 and 75 percent done, and then a final inspection, the lady informed me.

     Two more things to do now: finalize the order with ABC.  Once we got the order figured out, I had to go back to Fort Collins and pay him before he could submit the order.  I gave Jason my credit card.  He came back.  “Do you have a daily limit?” he asked.  “It was rejected.”  He wanted to say, “You are over your card limit, you bozo,” but he refrained.  My turn to be incredulous. 

     “Wouldn’t take it?” I asked. He nodded and looked at the credit card slip.

     Then he said, “Oh.”  He showed me the slip.  It said “$54,000.”  He had tried to charge $54,000 to my credit card.  He wadded up the slip.  “We better try that again.”  This time it went through, with one less zero on the slip.  One thing left to do.  I called the city and ordered a rollback dumpster, seven feet by twenty feet.  I couldn’t see myself making four or five trips to the landfill with the poor old Dakota. 

     Now I was committed.  The roofing materials arrived one day, the dumpster the next.  The delivery man from ABC had a forklift on the back of his trailer.  He carefully stacked the roofing sheets in the driveway where the Dakota usually sits.  He put the trim pieces on top of the roof panels.  After he left, I moved the trim pieces to the back yard and covered them with a tarp.  They were in separate packages that I could carry by myself.  The Dakota could straddle the roof panels with plenty of clearance, so I could still park in the driveway.  A couple of boards and some old newspaper protected the roof panels from the greasy drips from the Dakota’s power steering.

     A day or two before Halloween, the dumpster arrived.  The driver skillfully backed the trailer far enough to the side to avoid the landscaping and still allow for the car to get in and out of the garage.  Time for the real work to begin.

      This time, I had no Joe.  Joe moved to Michigan.  I had to rely on the family, the daughters, the son-in-law, the daughter’s boyfriend.  Brother Harry was sidelined in the beginning as he recovered from hernia repair.  The project went on long enough, however, that he could help me finish the project.

     We worked around social schedule (mostly singing jobs or practice with the quartet), doctor appointments, the family’s schedule, Bronco’s games, Thanksgiving, and foul weather.  I told the HOA I would be done in November.  I didn’t finish until the first week of December.  Nobody complained.  I think the neighbors were entertained by checking every once in awhile to see if I had fallen off the roof yet.

     We kept the place cleaned up.  With the dumpster, it was easy to do.  The dumpster had to go back before the end of November or I would be charged another $350.  As a result, the Dakota now has some metal scraps that I will have to dispose of sometime. 

      I was worried by what a roof inspection might involve.  I tried to schedule one on Friday before we had fair weather and a family crew coming for Saturday and Sunday.  I was afraid we might get more than 75% done.  As it turned out, that was a needless worry.

      On Monday morning, the guy, a young fellow, showed up.  There was still frost on the roof.  The permit info said I had to provide access to the roof.  “You’re not going to get up there are you?” I asked.

      “No,” he said. "I just need to see that you used heavy enough fabric, at least thirty pound.  It says ‘30’ all over it so that’s good enough.”  I hadn’t noticed, but it did have “30” written all over it.  The inspector dated and initialed my permit, did the same on a receipt form and gave me the receipt.  I asked him if I needed to do something I wasn’t doing.  He said he had never inspected a metal roof before, that he would have to consult some of the older inspectors.  I asked him to inform me if there was something I needed to do.  I never heard from him.

 

      The same fellow returned for the final inspection.  I almost missed him.  I was working on the shed roofs in the back yard.  He had put my receipt between the storm and front door.  I didn’t realize it, but I was supposed to have scheduled two inspections for the first go-around.  So he hadn’t done the final after all.  I asked him if he could do it now.  He grabbed the receipt from between the doors, added “final” to it and initialed it again.  He gave me the slip of paper and he was gone.

      I had images of having to redo something, or do something more.  I remember an inspector who made the sheetrocker go back and add a bunch of screws to the panels he had put on the wall.        

      Had I worried for nothing?  Or was it that the things I worry about don’t happen?

      I took my permit to the city office to finalize it.  The lady got on the computer and told me I still had to do the final inspection.  I showed her my piece of paper.  She made a copy and said Matt would have to sign off on it. 

     “Am I done?”  I asked. 

     “You are done,” she said.  I wanted to say, “For the last time,” but I didn’t.