|This appears to be affixed over our house, for the time being|
We start with a bang. We've known about this troublesome spot over the kitchen table since shortly after we moved into the house, but it had never gone further than an occasional water spot after a hard rain. We knew that eventually we'd have to address it, but it never made its way to the top of the list of priorities. On Monday, the situation had clearly accelerated.
What happened was that an ice dam manifested on that section of the roof. After a lot of snow the past few weeks, it's gotten a bit milder off and on. The melting snow refroze into ice and got jammed up in our gutters. As the ice thawed, it pooled in the weak section of the roof. Thus, the leaking.
Mike set up an empty wastebasket to catch the water. We fret.
Tuesday, all day: Mike contacts a roofing company and our insurance company. We gather information.
Tuesday, 5 pm: I come home from work to see that the situation has worsened considerably. The water is now dripping rapidly, and very loudly, into several containers that Mike has placed very carefully. The ceiling looks terrible. The water stain is large and angry looking, and the ceiling appears slightly bowed in that one section. This is ominous indeed. A roofer is scheduled to make an appearance Wednesday, but I can see the writing on the wall. Or, the ceiling. :0 The drywall isn't going to be long for this world. We can no longer use the kitchen table since the drip catching containers are in the way.
Tuesday, 8 pm: The dripping is slowly driving me out of my mind. Concentrating on a conversation or my knitting is impossible with the:
*Drip. DRIP. Dripdrip. DRIPDRIPDRIP!!*
...in the background. Dejected and worried, we head to bed early.
Wednesday, 2 am: Mike awakens, and heads downstairs to check on the dripping.
"How is it?"
"Well, it looks a bit worse. But the water is staying in the containers. We should be fine until morning."
Wednesday, 2:05 am: *CRASH!!!!!!*
We run downstairs to find the section above the kitchen table collapsed, the floor a mess of wet and disintegrating drywall chunks and plaster. The water, now freed from it's pooled prison, is dripping happily with increased speed, volume and volatility. All attempts to sweep up the drywall damage are met with:
(a) our broom becoming insufferable and having to go into the garbage can, and
(b) appearance on the beleaguered floor of a PASTE-LIKE substance containing God knows what hazardous materials ceilings were made with in the 1930's.
Good times, I tell you, good times. This goes on until...
Wednesday, 3 am: Mike and I dismantle the kitchen table and move it into the downstairs office.
Wednesday, 3:30 am: Mike drags out garbage bags full of sodden drywall. The state of our rag towels is horrifying. Those go down to the basement.
Wednesday, 3:35 am: We put down a tarp and set up no fewer than 7 containers to catch the now very spread out drips.
Wednesday, 4 am: We go to bed. Sleep does not come until nearly 5 am.
Wednesday, 6:10 am: I wake and glare at the alarm clock.
Wednesday, 6:35 am: I am still in bed, projecting a pissed off attitude into our bedroom. I reluctantly get up and get ready for work.
Wednesday, all day: Mike fields the roofer and the insurance company. Our home owners insurance will cover the cost to fix the interior damage. Fixing the roof will be another matter. Plans are made with the roofer for ice removal and repairs to come after the new year when everything dries out.
Wednesday, 6 pm: The dripping has stopped, for which we ignite a Halleujah chorus. A lot of mess remains, but we have to wait for the water pooling to officially be gone to enact a permanent cleanup expedition. Anne begins to cough. Ohhh. Foreboding.
Thursday, 2 am: *Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip*
Is this a nightmare? It must be a nightmare. Dripping has gone from innocuous background noise to THE SOURCE OF MY ETERNAL TORMENT. Then I realize the dripping is coming from the vicinity of our bedroom. Mike's bedside light slams on.
"It's that icicle! I'm going to try to knock it down!"
Next thing I know, Mike, clad in his boxer shorts, is opening our bedroom window while desperately trying to reach an evil icicle hanging from the roof.
"I can't reach it!"
We both glare at the window. The dripping continues. We get back into bed.
Thursday, 2:10 am: I'm drifting off.
Thursday, 2:11 am: Anne begins to cough.
Thursday, 2:12 am: "MA MA!!"
Thursday, 2:15 am: I'm rocking a warm and newly ibuprofened Anne, poor babe.
Thursday, 2:45 am: I get back into bed. Anne is sleeping. I break out Christmas at Apple Ridge, since I am wide awake.
Thursday, 3:15 am: I turn off the bedside lamp. Attempt to fall asleep.
Thursday, 6:15 am: I awaken in a volatile mood, beyond exhausted. I glare at the clock.
Thursday, all day: Ice is removed from our roof. Plans are made for damage repair, but those won't come right away. We're hosting Christmas dinner in less than a week, and the kitchen looks catastrophic.
Sometimes, my friends, such is the way of things.