43. One More Time

It’s a long climb up the back stairs to the attic of the Chapter House and the exertion is tiring for this old guy.  But it’s a perfect day for it and I’m on my way to the roof.  Carrying the tool box up here has winded me and I set it down near the ladder and half sit for a few moments with my butt on one of the lower rungs.   Tapioca has followed me here.  I wonder what she wants.  Too bad she can't talk.  Maybe I should teach her.

There’s a lot of junk in our attic.  There are more pieces of empty luggage than I would have expected, now that I notice them.  More than a dozen suitcases.   Could it be so many brothers arrived with luggage but eventually went out in caskets?  And here's an odd piece.  My mother had one of these.  I’ll have to make up a story about it to tell Kickstart tonight after supper.  He’ll enjoy it.

“Seventeen monks have died here,”  I’ll begin, “Did you know that?” 
 “And one of them,”  I’ll add, “owned a cosmetics travel case.”  He’ll give me a quizzical look.
 
“Would you think,” I’ll say, “the man was somewhat gay or did he carry his pistols in it?”  I’ll wait a beat and then say, “Either way, he could be dangerous in a monastery.”



I've been doing some thinking about the roof and have decided it is an "occasion of sin," that is a person , place or thing that can heighten the possibility of my committing an offense.  Like jumping off and killing myself.  That's certainly offensive!  So I've decided to lessen the possibility with a few nails.

Eight 12 penny nails should do it, I’m thinking, and up the ladder I go with the nails in my pocket and the hammer hanging from my belt, secured well so it doesn’t drop on my canine companion below.  I can't get her to stand away from the bottom of the ladder.  She stares up at me.  I don't know if her tiny brain is worried about me or she just wants to go out on the roof for the fun of it.  I have a similar dilemma:  I don't know what my real purpose is out on the roof.  I'm not sure if I should be worried or having fun up there.  She's a dopey dog.  I'm a dopey monk.

At the top of the ladder up under the rafters, I pound a two nails into each side of the trap door so that not even a tornado will open it.

“There, Tapioca,” I say to the dog, “never again will a visitor mistakenly climb up the ladder and go out on the roof while he's looking for a bathroom.”

It's a lie and she knows it. She remains quiet, however, evidently observing our monastic silence.  But there’s no rule against  dog conversations during the day.  I make my way back down the stairs to the kitchen where Izzy is boiling the rice and beans for our supper.  There must be old guys somewhere having more fun than us.

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