Felix slid the ladder through the open window and onto the roof of the front porch. He ached as he carefully stepped out and into an aroma of cut grass simmering in morning dew. From this perch above his yard, Felix looked across at the Queen Anne commanding its place along the street. Next to it, veiled by a canopy of ash and maples, emerged a stately Italianate. Further down, the street was awash in Saturday activity - a man infusing a garden bed with compost, a teenager trimming a hedge, a young woman waiving from an open car door, a puppy dragging a leash up the street.
As Felix checked his supplies, the puppy spotted him on the roof and sat near a pear tree in his front yard to watch. Last winter, under weight of icy snow, several branches split off from its trunk. Its remaining limbs formed an f. Even nature graded his house. How could others not. Felix looked up at his decayed gutter and above that at a seared roof. He bit down on his lower lip and felt the broken edge of a tooth. Felix shimmed the ladder and tethered it to the post between two windows. He clipped into his fall harness. With the prep work done, he stood ready to fix things. Felix brightened then paused. His thoughts turned to a notion lingering from a recent trip to the Mediterranean.
Felix shuddered, recalling the swarm of vendors in a narrow market hawking food and spirits. Jostling lines of stooped matrons with upraised palms beckoned shoppers into lively banter. Then their grateful nods to complete the toil from seed to basket. Felix held back in the tail of the beastly mob, wary of a thumb on a scale. He slipped next to a wool-capped tour guide gesturing for a travel group to close circle around an open rack of baklava for a telling of its history. Felix listened to the guide’s story. Long ago, to improve the marketplace, any cook preparing a tasty new dish could prevent other chefs from making it for a year. One ancient baker layered filo dough with chopped nuts and honey. Baklava became a thing in itself - refined, good, and lofty. For that the ancients granted the baker a year to build a craving for this pastry. The guide finished and invited his group to sample pieces of the comfort food.
Felix resisted the urge, as other souls stepped closer, pleased not to honor it. He turned to look at nearby stands as if for clues how this baked dough rose in stature. The stands were simple and scrubbed. There were no bins of rancid produce or street gutters clogged with dirty water. Once in a while a merchant would shout out a price of her wares, but not fiercely. Felix did not see what he wanted to see; that Baklava’s honor was earned by trial and torment. Other sellers gave a blind eye to the circled tourists. Commerce welcomed that pastry’s destiny without hesitation or stony silence. As the group pressed forward, a man stumbled against the display rack. It began to tip. A matron hurried over from another counter to steady it.
Still, Felix sought ploy in the facade. Patrons were not given an unenviable choice in price for good, better or best. It was all from that baker or none. All it allowed for the baker was to get ahead and to look after dependents. Baklava was not lifted atop a column; its baker was provided a comfortable floor. Still, Felix could see shady merchants making back alley Baklava. Why if he were that baker, he would marry a daughter of a nut farmer or a beekeeper. Corner the market. He could see that. Felix gasped, “But flavor?” A woman in the travel group edged away from Felix. “Hey Lady, flavor is just a help in getting it down your gullet.” The woman turned and nodded, “Then you would have no taste.” The group moved on. Felix was alone.
His peril on the ladder returned. His house was like a cupboard, a place needing to be stocked. He did not have a year to get things done. The roof was perishing. He needed renters soon. His neighbors kept watch. He felt their anticipation of the home’s unique features waiting to be restored. He felt their passion that it be fixed so all would see wisdom in its preservation. Felix waited for the moment when a neighbor would display ire. He fancied that scorn. It was useful. It steeled him to undertake this task. “What do they know?” he fumed as he climbed up the ladder to his digesting wood. Part way up, he heard a voice. “Hey, stop!” He turned. There was that young woman trying to grab a leash. “Apollo, stop!” She turned to Felix. “Sorry, Apollo got out of the car. I shouted for him.” The woman caught the leash and jerked it. Apollo stopped. “Looks nice,” she said, “Be careful up there.” Felix muttered back, “Why don’t you climb this ladder.” Apollo pulled at the leash, but the woman yanked it and the dog sat. “Felix, it looks nice. I like it the way it is,” she responded. “You certainly are a tenacious sort. Make yourself useful. Step on up here and help,” Felix retorted. The young woman gestured down the street, “Mom and dad did the same thing. They had the same misfortunes as you. What you are doing is not that different than what happened at every house along this block.” The young woman returned to the car and pushed Apollo inside. Felix reached for a trim board, leveled it, and then secured it in place with his nailer. Felix labored on.
Over the years, northern winds blew wintery rain, while southern winds fanned blistering heat. Nature’s ordeal had tested and vanquished this roof. Felix strove on, feeling as if watched by gargoyles. As he worked, he waited for a visit from winged creatures, with scales in their claws, demanding a pound of flesh. And there was good in it, Felix and history and place. He set about this task as a time for chastening, as opportunity to discard flawed architecture, and to rebuild this house to comfort those who would dwell in it.
