In terms of restful sleep, or even a bit of peace and quiet, the last three days have been . . . well . . . a test of my patience and perseverance.

Oh, who am I kidding? I’m living in auditory, sleep-deprived hell.

Our house is getting a new roof. It is one of those unfortunate inevitabilities of life that sneak up on you from time to time. While we humans, and our furry friends, spend our lives sheltered from the elements in abodes with walls, windows, doors, and a roof, those very structures that shelter us are themselves laid bare to the elements.

Here in the southern U.S., they’re exposed to scorching summers, windy winters, and year-round rain of biblical proportions — not to mention the apocalyptic thunderstorms accompanied by falling branches and miscellaneous wind-borne debris. Through all of these, the roof naturally catches the worst of it.

So on Wednesday, the roofers arrived shortly before 9:00 a.m. to begin what was supposed to be a day-and-a-half job.

I know I’ve made it quite clear in the past, but for those who missed my personal revelations, allow me to explain once again: I am a night owl. My body clock is totally screwed up. I am wide awake and at my most productive at midnight, when the vast majority of people are sound asleep. I generally get to bed around 2:00 or 3:00 a.m., sometimes lying awake — my mind aswirl with totally unrelated thoughts — until 4:00 a.m. or later. Then I sleep until noon.

So, although I was prepared for the morning invasion of the roofers, I had not realized that my wake-up call would consist of a battalion of drillers trying to break through the ceiling of my bedroom. Or so it seemed.

And that attack was, of course, accompanied by the ferocious barking of our dog Dixie, who — though in reality a loving creature — thinks she is protecting us by announcing the arrival of any stranger (or vehicle) within 100 yards of the house. And she is relentless.

So when the strangers in question don’t simply walk or drive past the house, but stick around to set up camp in the back yard and actually attack the house with their ladders, large tools, and roofing tiles . . . well, Dixie goes ballistic.

And that pillow over my head? Useless.

So on that first day (Wednesday), I decided it would be the better part of wisdom to get up and stay up, rather than lie there waiting for the roofers to drop through the ceiling onto my bed. I could always take a nap in my cozy den a little later, right?

Wrong. Because once I was up and about, Dixie quieted down and parked herself — atop my feet — in her “I really need a massage” pose in front of my easy chair. The noise from above never abated, but somehow my presence (not to mention 20 minutes of my gentle ministrations) managed to soothe her.

Unfortunately, there was no one available to do the same for me, and I spent the remainder of Wednesday — until around 5:00 p.m. — listening to a cacophony of sounds alternating among drilling, scraping and hammering. I tried listening to music, but it was only halfway effective; and somehow, the rhythmic noises from upstairs never quite synchronized with the strains of Shostakovich’s Waltz No. 2.

Even my old Dukes of Dixieland CDs weren’t loud enough. Some heavy metal might have done the trick, but that would just be trading one form of ear-splitting noise for another.

Anyway, I survived Wednesday — without a nap, I might add — and slept pretty well for about five hours that night . . . until 8:30 a.m. on Thursday, when the team arrived, allegedly to finish the job. Again accompanied by Dixie’s barking, they set to work for what should have been another half day, but turned out to be longer . . . until one of those southern afternoon rains arrived to put a merciful end to it.

And that evening, my son delivered the rest of the bad news. Upon returning home from work, he had climbed up to the roof to check on the progress that had been made, expecting it to be a fait accompli. But, as he put it, it was a mess. He estimated that — while we were indeed safe from that day’s rain — the job appeared to be only about half done.

Now it is Friday. For the third day in a row, I am running on about four hours of sleep; trying to ignore the guy just above me hammering tiles into place (at least, I hope that’s what he’s doing); and wondering what time today’s thunderstorm will arrive to delay things further, and whether these clowns work on the weekend.

*. *. *.

I know I shouldn’t complain. I read every day about people living in the hell of war-torn Ukraine, Gaza, and our own Florida Everglades abomination known as “Alligator Alcatraz.” And I am truly thankful to be where I am.

But I could really use some sleep.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
8/22/25

P.S. Following a wi-fi delay caused by a router outage — now rectified by my tech-genius son and daughter-in-law — I am able to report that the afternoon storm is upon us, and the roofers have fled. We’ll see what tomorrow brings.