My roof is getting a Brazilian. Well, actually, the guy up there speaks Spanish, but Paolo, who owns the roof cleaning business, is from Brazil and remarked once already that he tends to forget and use the Portuguese word sometimes when directing Santiago, who is up there with a rotary pressure washer getting about ten years of algae and some dire-looking clumps of moss off the shingles.
I am paying more than I expected to when I set out to find someone to do this, but then given that everything costs more than you expected, plus what would someone have to pay you to go up there and do that?, I am fairly resigned about it. Also Santiago has some cement left from another job and is going to replace the missing brick you can see there in the chimney, and they are putting a new gasket on my roof vent, which probably hasn’t been done in fifteen years (visualize anything made of rubber that has been sitting on your roof in the sun for fifteen years; gruesome).
This is not really so much cosmetic as it is about the nervous tic I started to develop every time I pulled into my driveway and saw the moss clumps having babies. Last autumn the Cute Engineer’s roof developed an occult gap in the decking that admitted buckets of water and an entire raccoon, and one of my clients is still dickering over the repairs occasioned by mold that got going in her garage roof, both four-figure casualties that can happen if assorted life forms degrade your shingles in the subtropical climate of D.C. The roof shampooer is a bargain by comparison.
The cats, of course, disapprove and are on strike; they have let me know they won’t hunt a mouse until the noisy men leave.
Fair deal. The mice only come in around February anyway. They’d hate the hell out of it if what got in was a raccoon instead.