Ginger Vehaskari: Granny on the Roof

GRANNY ON THE ROOF

by Ginger Vehaskari

PART 1

“MOM! In the one day you have been here, you have completely destroyed our reputations.”

“Well! What else was I supposed to do?”

A week ago, the excitement of my grandson being born gave me more twitters in my stomach than the bumpy flight from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. The little plane dashed head-long into the puffy white clouds and thrust out on the opposite side, then dipped down to evade an on-coming crush of black ink clouds lined with lightning. It seemed the little airplane was playing dodge ball with the clouds and the clouds were winning. The small yet thoroughly man-handled carryon suitcase banged around in the upper compartment. In between the plane’s bumps, lifts, and down winds, I prayed the case wouldn’t fall out and spill on the floor. It might be hard to explain.

I sat bolt upright in my seat, white knuckles gripped the plane’s armrests, my face was a pale green, and my red curls flattened to my head from the nervous sweat. I gritted my teeth and through tight lips spit out “This rattle-trap flying machine will not fall because I have a new grandson to see.”

The fifteen-seater airplane flapped its wings, hit the airstrip like a basketball, bounced to the end of the runway, skidded in a semi-circle, farted blue smoke, and stopped at the open-air terminal. Most of the passengers piled out of the plane, wet from crying or from other bodily malfunctions.

Thank goodness that’s over. Can’t anything be worse than this day. I burped up acid reflux as I lugged and bumped my case down the airplane’s steps. Good we have two weeks before the baby is born.

Well, babies have their own clocks and this baby’s alarm clock set off alarms at three in the morning. Big fire alarms. Like every minute and fifteen second alarms. Now if anyone knows anything about birthing, you’ll know that if the mother at this point just ekes out a sneeze, the surprised and ready-to-pass-out father will be receiving a sticky-wet screaming package in his hands.

Forty-five minutes later the peaceful sleeping baby snored next to the comatose and stunned parents in the hospital maternity ward.

Back at the condo, panic set my red curls twitching. The tighter they coiled, the faster I flew around the house. Wash, dust, scrub, clothes, dressing table, under the sofa, behind the TV table, diapers, vacuum, bathtub, dishes, floor, carpets…forget the windows…sheets, oh my god, the refrigerator is a disaster.

Done. Now for the patio.

My daughter shared a kitchen wall and patio wall with the neighbor’s kitchen and patio wall. The neighbor lady had been a lawyer in her youth but now unfortunately had stages of Alzheimer’s. She never took off her cookie-monster fluffy blue slippers, so that is what the neighbors called her.

“Have you seen Fluffy-Blue-Slippers today? How is she?”

“I bumped into Fluff-Blue-Slippers in Whole Foods trying to buy an oriental man to come drive her car and she doesn’t have a car, does she?”

“Fluffy-Blue-Slipper’s family should come to take care of her.”

Several months earlier, Fluffy-Blue-Slippers had stormed into the condo management association meeting. She padded down the center aisle, blue fuzz floating behind every step, waved a letter in her hand, shouted, “I demand retribution and justice.” She slammed the letter on the table in front of the administration committee. Two members jumped, another covered her face with her hands while the fourth one snuck out to get a sergeant-at-arms to take FluffyBlue-Slippers away.

Fluffy-Blue-Slippers turned to the stunned condo-owners in the audience and read her letter in ever-increasing volume. “Dear Condominium Association, I petition the committee to take immediate action against intrusive and illegal deeds engaged by my neighbors Kristina and Danny Fall.” She stopped and glared at each individual in the room daring them to contradict or oppose her. She cleared her throat and raised her voice to a window-rattling pitch. “My said neighbors have extended their apartment into my condo by moving their kitchen wall into my condo.” She stood tall and lengthened her body to the stretching point. “The said neighbors have also built an apartment on top of my condo and there are three spies coming and going at all times of the night.” She took off her glasses with a

dramatic sweep and raised her letter toward the ceiling. “I demand a thorough investigation.”

The police, architects, and engineers came and investigated. No structure had been built, no spies, nor had my daughter and son-in-law moved any walls.

Back to the present, the last to be cleaned was the patio. I slid open the patio doors and tried to stare through the brick wall between the two condos to see if Fuzzy was around. Got to clean this patio. I hope Fuzzy-Blue-Slippers isn’t bothered. The lemon tree was bug infested, the bamboo looked like dried desert grass, the hand-me-down grill was rusted with old food, flowers needed transplanting and repotting, the sofa and chairs were red under the two inches of grey dust, and the sugar ants were having a Mardi Gras Parade.

Hours later, wet sweat and dripping, I looked around with pride. There. Done. Clean and beautiful little patio.

“Wahmoonunroen?” A voice came from the other side of the cement wall. Fluffy-Blue-Slippers had heard either me or some strange noises. I did sing while I worked.

I froze. Oh great, Fuzzy Blue Slippers heard me. I didn’t have a clue as to what she just said. But I swallowed hard and answered, “Hello. Just fine, thank you.”

“Cameooeehowuther?”

“Yes, beautiful morning, isn’t it?” Boy, this is an interesting conversation. I stood with my fists on my hips and stared at the cement wall wondering how this chat was going to wind up. Nothing to do but be polite and answer. So, I lifted my head and threw her a comment over the wall: “Nice dog you have there.”

Dobi, short for Doberman, was Fuzzy-Blue-Slipper’s protector, a large, snarling, black, and mean animal. He’d probably heard my voice and now with a petrifying bark was throwing himself against the glass patio doors. Fuzzy-BlueSlippers went inside and closed the doors. There was immediate quiet.

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

I wiped off my flip-flops and turned to finish cleaning inside. “Crap. The patio doors won’t open.” I jiggled, pushed, banged, cursed, and rattled the doors. They wouldn’t budge. “Crap. They are locked from the inside.” I tried the windows. Locked. I took an old garden trowel and tried to pry open the windows. No luck. The trowel bent backwards. “Crap. You’d think that rusty skinny aluminum window frames would open easily.”

I stood still in the center of the enclosed patio. “Don’t panic. Don’t panic. Take a slow deep breath.” I turned around, took one huge deep breath, and yelled at the blue cloudless sky, “Crap! I’m locked in the patio, no phone, no key, no ladder. I could be here two days before anyone finds me! Shheeeeeattt!”

PART 2

My heart was beating so hard my fingers were pulsating, there was ringing in my ears, and my clammy red curls were like tight corkscrews trying to pull my brains out. Think. Calm down and think.

I took a thin metal fold-up chair and placed it next to the wall. It was slippery and my flip-flops didn’t have much traction, but with quivering legs, I stood on the rickety chair and reached up. My hands just reached the top of the wall. Pat, pat, pat, I tapped the top of the wall. “Hello? Hello over there? Hellooo?” Pat, pat, pat. It worked.

The patio door slid open. “Who are you and what are you doing over there?” Fuzzy-Blue-Slippers asked. Well, at least now I could understand what she was saying. Dobi was growling.

“I live here and I’m locked in the patio with no key.” I sighed; I knew that didn’t make any sense even to a normal person.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the mother of Kristina. She’s in the hospital and she’s had a baby.” The chair wiggled and I grabbed the top of the wall.

air. “Oh, she had a baby?” A surprised and happy voice blew blue fuzz into the

“Yes, it is a boy.” I was getting tired of polite conversation, so I yelled up to

the sky and over the concrete wall. “I’m locked in the patio. I don’t have a key.”

A shaky frightened voice asked, “You don’t have a key?”

The chair wobbled again and I gripped the top of the wall. “No, I don’t have a key. I am locked in and can’t get out.” I hoped that short, direct, concrete sentences would be clearer to the old lady.

The suspicious voice asked in slow motion, “How …did …you …get …in …there?”

“I was cleaning the patio.” Grandma’s voice was louder than she intended. “I need help. Go get help.”

“Help?” A frightened Fuzzy Slippers squeaked, “What kind of help?”

I started knocking my head against the wall, “Dang it all, why me? Why is my rescuer an Alzheimer’s patient?” I yelled again to the wall, “Call security.”

“Se-cu-ri-ty?” Fuzzy tried to untangle the complicated word.

“Yes, that’s right. Call security. Get a key.”

“Security? We don’t have security.” Fuzzy was confused.

I began to panic. Oh no. I can’t have her getting confused. Her brain function will erase any immediate actions, sounds, and events. She’ll forget I’m out here. I called up to the wall again in a calm voice. “Oh, that’s ok. Call the superintendent.”

“Oh no, oh no. We don’t have a superintendent either. No, no. No superintendent.”

Just then Fuzzy began to shuffle back to her patio doors. Oh, no, she can’t leave now. Grab her attention. Something drastic. Maybe she recognizes the wordpolice. Great. Try it. “Call the police” I shouted to the top of the wall.

Fuzzy-Blue-Slippers screamed, “POLICE. Oh my. Oh my. Call the police. Call the police. Heeellllp.” She shuffled-ran to her patio doors, slammed them shut. Dobi again attacked the doors. Then, all was quiet.

I listened. Quiet. Then the TV came on with a game show program. My hopes sank. Unbelievable. A game show program? She’s watching a game show program. I stepped down off the chair and rested on the now damp red sofa, looked at the bamboo and the few leaves on the lemon tree and discussed the situation with the plants.

“Great. Fuzzy’s watching TV, but after all, maybe that’s a good thing.” She pointed to the wall and shrugged. “I have no identification on me. If she remembers to think, she might suspect me of being a thief or spy. She’ll now have proof there are spies in Kristina’s house. Great.” I took the straw hat off, wrung out the water – or sweat – and slapped away some leftover bugs. “I’ve got to think of something.”

In the corner was a light round metal table, still dripping from the jet shower. I pushed it over to the wall and gingerly placed the shaky metal chair on top. “I’m gonna kill myself, for sure.” I stood on the red sofa and stepped onto the table and sucked in my breath as the table teeter -tottered. The acrid smell that wafted up from the damp metal of the table and chair made my stomach do loopde-loops. It was a lot worse than the airplane ride yesterday.

In slow motion, I stepped onto the chair, held my breath, and snail-crawled up against the wall. Inch by inch I slunk up to the top of the wall, leaving a wet trail from my T-shirt and shorts. The top of the wall was now waist high. From this spot, I could lift and straddle the wall between the two patios. My right arm clung to the opposite side of the scratchy wall, the rough wall tore scratches in my right leg as I lifted it over the wall, while my left leg scooted the rest of my body up to the top.

Oh my God…Success! I think. I looked down into Fuzzy’s patio, no furniture, no plants, no barbeque pit…nothing, not even dog poop. Nothing to step down on and Dobi was crashing into the patio door. Got a bad feeling about that dog. For sure he’s upset at seeing a grandma in a straw hat sitting on his wall. I guess it’s not a good idea to try and jump down there. Where to then?

I realized if I could scoot over, I might be able to pull up onto the roof. Like an inchworm, I worked my way toward the roof. The concrete wall scraped my hands and the insides of my thighs but finally my fingers touched the roof. Oooeee, ouch, the roof tiles were like sandpaper. My fingers, arms and elbows dug into the scratchy red and grey tiles and as I pulled up onto the roof, I scraped my chin,

nose, cheek, knees, and toes. Jeeze. I’m gonna’ look like I’ve crawled through the jungle.

I took a deep sigh as I reached the top, straddled the peak, and looked around. There were blue mountains in the distance and the nearby green foothills. There were no clouds in the sparkling California blue sky. Man, I could stay here all day, but I guess I might get thirsty and I’m sure as hell not going back down in the patio to get water. I looked up at the variegated golden colors of the sun glad to have my hat. OK, how to get down.

My flip-flops flipped mud up the back of my legs and my wet shorts slapped my legs as I walked across the roof. Shoot. I thought I’d be all dry by now. I turned to listen to chopping noises coming from around the condo. Far in the distance, there were two Hispanic men with long ladders, trimming trees near the condo entrance. “Hooray I’m saved.”

I jumped up and down waving both arms, and straw hat in one hand. “Hello! Hello! Heeellloooo!” I shouted. The two men turned and looked at me. Good, they see me. Now they can bring over the ladder and get me down! Boy, was I excited. Thank god, thank god.

The two men watched me, raised their hands, and waved back. “Heeello. Heeelllo.” They smiled.

I froze, unable to believe. “What?” she yelled. “I’m a sixty-six-year-old grandma, on a roof, wearing shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops, and a straw hat!” I slapped my legs with the hat and yelled at them “Don’t you think this is unusual?” Got to try again, I groaned.

“HELLO. HELLOOOO” I yelled even louder, jumped up and down in a frantic panic. I hope I’m not putting a hole in the roof. I looked down and quietly moved to another spot. I hope no one’s ceiling cracked. Maybe I can blame it on an earthquake or tremor.

The two men watched with increasing interest. They smiled, nodded, and waved again. “Heeelloo. Yeees. Heeelloo.”

“Sheeeaat.” I screamed. “What is wrong with this picture? I’m an old woman on a roof. Do they think this happens all the time in California?”

I had to try again. This time I beckoned to them and shouted a word that is most easy to translate into Spanish, “Come. Come.” and gestured toward myself.

“Yees, yees,” they beckoned back to me, gesturing toward themselves. “Come, come” they yelled and smiled at me.

Dumbfounded. The men didn’t speak English. I’ve gotta find my own way down. I walked over to the edge of the roof. There in the parking lot was FuzzyBlue Slippers in her pajamas calling the police. She looked up and saw me on the edge of the roof and screamed. “Oh my God! What are you doing up there? Don’t jump. Don’t jump!”

I looked down and said in a calm Kindergarten-teacher voice, “I’m locked out. I don’t have a key.”

Fuzzy looked up in shock, mouth wide open. “But what are you doing up there? How did you get up there? I’m calling the police.”

I looked down and thought, Be nice. Be nice. Be nice. Pretend it is ordinary to be on a roof and smiled at Fuzzy, “I climbed up here. I’m locked out. I don’t have a key.”

Fuzzy looked up confused, “You climbed up on the roof?” She was surprised and asked in a quizzical manner, “How old are you?”

I looked down at Fuzzy as if she were a tiny child, “I’m sixty-six years old and I’m locked out.”

Fuzzy stood with her hands and phone on her hips looking up. “I’m eightyfive years old and I can’t get up on a roof.”

“Well,” I replied, “When I’m eighty-five years old, I won’t be climbing on a roof either.” This was a strange conversation, and I thought the police might be here soon because I could hear voices on Fuzzy’s phone. It was going to be hard to explain how I got locked IN a house and had to climb on the roof to get out. I had to get down.

I walked around the perimeter of the roof checking to see which spot was the closest to the ground. But it was too far to jump. There were various bushes planted around and a few scraggly trees that wouldn’t hold any weight. Near one

corner was a bit bigger tree that looked like it might be strong enough, at least it might break my fall. It’ll have to do. The branches were thin but arranged in an easy climbing-down pattern. Hope they don’t break. I leaned over and shook the limbs to test their strength.

Around the corner in a slow plodding gait, one of the landscapers strolled with a most curious look on his face. “Heeellooo. Heeelloo.” He smiled and waved…quick learner. I couldn’t wait. I reached for the closest branches.

“Nonono. No Madam. No No,” he cried out waving his hands in the air.

Fuzzy-Blue-Slippers cried out, “Don’t jump. Don’t jump. You’ll hurt yourself. I’m calling the police,” and started dialing again. “Hello, hello, police. A woman is jumping off the roof. Come quick.”

I groaned. The thought of being a sixty-six-year-old grandma in shorts, a hat, and flip-flops in a California jail with druggies gave me the shivers. I looked down at my two impossible rescuers. Too late to stop now, and I grabbed the first limb. It didn’t crack but sure swayed and dipped low. I maneuvered down the fragile tree limb. I reached the last foothold, bent over, grabbed the lower branch with both hands, swung down, and hung suspended in the air, hat and flip-flops still intact and in place, but it was still too far to drop down.

Fuzzy was screaming into the phone, “She’s climbing down the tree! She’s going to fall!”

The gardener ran over and looked up. He offered up his small puny hand to help, which was at least six feet below my flip-flops. I hung there and looked down at the little hand waving like a weak wet tissue. Gawd, men are stupid. That scrawny hand wouldn’t hold melted butter. I looked around at the ground. There were big decorative rocks on the left and a sloping lawn toward the right. I knew that if I dropped to the ground, I might sprain an ankle or break a leg and that would be the end of helping my daughter.

I swung my legs hard, once, twice, gaining momentum with each thrust, then lunged and threw myself toward the man. Sure hope to hell he’s stronger than he looks. At least he’ll break my fall, I prayed as I flew.

My legs grabbed tight around the man’s waist, I grasped my arms around his neck and over we flew. My hat and flip-flops sailed off in various directions. The

look on his face was a mixture of surprise and pleasure. He grinned from ear to ear while looking shocked. I jumped up, wiped off the grass and sand, picked up the flip-flops, and crammed my hat back on my head, as if I did this sort of thing all the time.

Fuzzy screamed into the phone, “Oh my god, she just jumped on a man! We need help!”

I looked from one rescuer to the other; one didn’t speak English, the other wasn’t coherent most of the time. She turned to the tree-trimmer. “Call supervisor.”

“Oh, si, si call supervisor.” He pulled a beaten-up cell phone from his pocket, punched in the numbers and spoke in Spanish. He handed me the phone. “Here, to please speak.”

“Hello. I’m here from New Orleans helping my daughter who just gave birth to a baby. I’m locked out of the house. I was in the patio and the door locked, so I climbed up on the roof and climbed down a tree. Can you call my daughter please?”

The supervisor spoke English in a slow deliberate way, “Sooo, let me get this straight. You were locked IN the patio, IN the house and you couldn’t get OUT?”

“Yes.” It was plain to see that he was more than a bit suspicious.

“So, HOW did you get out of the patio?”

“I climbed onto the roof.”

“You climbed up on the roof?”

“Yes.”

The supervisor was silent. It was obvious he was going over his options. Either he was talking to a thief who got caught, a demented old lady, or a weirdo who liked climbing on roofs. His voice came in slow motion, “And- you- climbed- down- a- tree?”

“Yes, and I would like for you to call my daughter, please.”

“And you are a grandmother?”

“Yes, and I would like for you to call my daughter, please.”

“And you climbed on the roof?”

“Yes, yes, yes! I got locked in the patio and had to get out.”

I squeezed the phone, anger and frustration steaming up the already wet curls. I glared at the landscaper. “This is great.” I jammed the phone back into his hands. “I’ll just wait for the police.”

His head snapped around at the word ‘police’ and he took off running, smack into the second landscaper who was carrying the long ladder. After a few frantic words in Spanish, they both turned tail and ran, the ladder clanging and dragging on the ground behind them.

Grandmas shouldn’t cry but this was one time when it might be warranted.

Fuzzy-Blue-Slippers looked thoughtful, handed the phone to me and said, “Call the hospital. Your daughter must have a spare key.”

I stood, mouth open, shocked. Threw my arms wide and hugged Fuzzy, the only person to come up with a good solution was a lady with dementia.

I again hugged a smiling Fuzzy. “You are brilliant.”

Long after I’d found the spare key, the police came, interrogated me, examined the patio door, checked the chair stacked on top of the metal table, shook the frail climbing-down tree, looked at me disbelieving, interviewed Fuzzy, who didn’t remember anything, and searched for the gardeners.

“Oh Mama,” Kristina cried, laughing through her tears, “In the one day you’ve been here you have completely destroyed our reputations!”

For several weeks, the two gardeners continued to come by the house and ask if Grandma could come out to party, but by then I was back in New Orleans dancing zydeco at Mulate’s.