27 Feb 2011
Back to topic of precariousness.
The ladder I’ve been using to get up high is clearly a home-built latter, perhaps built years ago and meant to last half the time it has lasted. It is wobbly, rotted, feels constantly moist, and looks like the one hinge holding front to back will spit at any moment. But painting half the wall on this ladder, the top corner while standing on the very last rung, was a cinch. Next came using the ladder to reach the two rotting beams of wood stretched across the frame for the [eventual] second floor, placed there for me to use as a temporary floor. And then came the even more precarious work of standing atop an old, rotting chair, atop the rotting wood beams (which I reached by using the rotting latter).
“Don’t fall!” Angelo yelled to me as he left me alone to work.
“Keep your ears open for me while you’re outside,” I said, “If I do fall I’m not a very loud screamer.”
“Do you have only one headphone earplug in?” he asked, noting that I had taken out one ear bud to talk to him, “Make sure to tip your head a little bit to the opposite side to reset the balance. You’ll be fine. Bye!”
Difficult, the life of a lumberjack.
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