release

There are few moments in a man’s life when the veil separating the absolutely mundane from total bone-shaking terror parts and allows the two to mix. Today I had just such a moment, putting Christmas lights on our house for the first time.

Generations of received wisdom dictate that properly placed lights run along the roofline. On our house, portions of the roofline hang twenty feet or higher in the air - more than three times my height. Leaning over with a drill in one hand, a power screwdriver in the other, and hardware clamped firmly between my lips would be unsettling even in with the best of support underfoot. But my so-called “Gorilla Ladder,” extended to that height, performs less like an 800-pound primate and more like a ferret on crystal meth - shaky, unstable, and apt to bite you at any minute.

Only the narrow rung digging through the rubber soles of my shoes held me aloft as I juggled drill, screwdriver, screws, and bracket with one hand, punching hole after hole into the roof overhang with the other. The concrete of the driveway and front walk covered the ground miles below. Heart pounding in my throat, I punched in the last of the brackets and dropped carefully down the trembling ladder.

I can only hope decorating the Christmas tree is less intimidating - it’s only eight feet high.

UPDATE: See? This is what I was afraid of. Lump of coal to Brad for the link.