I was amazed, when I walked around the corner of the house and saw the way the sunlight caught the details in the trim, that what had been just a bunch of dull gray wood and peeling paint earlier in the day suddenly became architecturally interesting and actually quite pretty. It almost made up for the price I paid to make it look nice.

The trim on the house has looked awful for years. I'd planned to freshen it up for several summers but things just got in the way. Rain, infestations of wasps, emergency brake jobs and countless other pursuits had eaten one weekend after another until the woodwork appeared to be in imminent danger of collapse. Finally I could postpone the job no more. I conceived a simple plan. I'd start at one end of a gable and scrape it, moving the ladder across the house, and then I'd work the other way, priming the woodwork and finally painting it. I figured that one gable's worth of trim would take a couple of hours. The last time I painted any major trim on a house, "major" meaning anything I couldn't reach from a kitchen stool, was about fifteen years ago. On that project I ran up and down an extension ladder, both hands laden with brushes, scrapers and cans of paint, feeling nothing but job satisfaction at the end of the day. Since then my extension ladder and I have both gained considerable amounts of weight. In previous times the ladder was just heavy; when I tried to set it up this week it weighed just slightly less than a mid-1950's family car. It was also just as maneuverable. Nonetheless, I armed myself with a scraper and wire brush and alighted the ladder.

For all its weight, the extension ladder is incredibly flexible. In fact, it weaved and swung like a tree branch in a windstorm. I dropped the tools and grabbed a rung, hanging on for dear life until the bouncing subsided. Timidly I picked up the tools and restarted upward, noticing that the ladder was much more accommodating to my slower pace. Once I reached the base of the gable I started scraping, watching as little flecks of old paint dropped like bird-turd, the smaller pieces clinging to my arms and blowing down my back and into my hair. Still, I couldn't skip this step, and I figured a good hot shower would be an ample reward for the effort. I scraped with one hand and then the other, reaching as far as I could, and when one section was laid bare I descended the ladder and moved over. I discovered on the first trip down that my feet had also become wider since the last project, and I had to move carefully to avoid stepping on them.

I pulled the ladder toward the center of the gable, taking care not to drag it over a window centered just below the peak. Just then I realized that not only would I have to raise the ladder to reach the unscraped areas, but I'd have to lower it again on the other side. Realizing that three rounds of ladder-bobbing would leave my arms as flaccid as shoelaces, I adjusted my plan and borrowed my neighbor's very light fiberglass ladder. It's a beauty that one man can raise and lower without serious injury and it sports non-skid aluminum rungs. In fact, upon brushing my bare knee against a rung I recalled a childhood incident involving new roller skates. Still, the convenience of extending the big ladder once and leaving it extended made up for the skinned knee.

I finished the scraping and prepared to prime, grateful that the heat wave we'd suffered earlier in the week had subsided. I popped the lid of the primer can and stirred it up. Ascending the ladder, I looked to my left and saw a large section of unscraped trim. Our house is L-shaped, and part of the gable end hung over the L. I needed to step onto the roof and traverse about five feet to reach it. I've been on the roof several times before. The last time I was up there, somehow the pitch had become so steep I had a tough time creeping back down to the ladder. Still, I couldn't leave that trim untouched; I'd have to adjust my plan once more.

I reset the ladder so I could step off it and grab the gable, giving me an opportunity to catch my balance before mounting the ascent to the trim. I leaned it against the L and scrambled up. At the top I realized the ladder was too low; I had nothing to hold while I reached for the house. I descended and raised the ladder. (I've learned that the top portion of an extension ladder is called the "fly section," which to me seems inopportune; one thing I don't want to do on a ladder is fly, because the only conceivable flight path is down!) Once again in the air, I found that the way the rungs are spaced my foot was too far below the roof edge to step up. If I climbed another rung I would have been completely above the edge, which might have changed the point of balance, turning the whole contraption into a giant teeter-totter with no fixed fulcrum, which could only lead to that dreaded downward flight.

Once again I returned to earth to ponder the problem. I concluded that the only way to get on the roof was to brace the ladder against the house and swing sideways, releasing my grip on the ladder as I caught the gable with the other hand. For once the actual practice worked as well as the theory; I found myself standing one-footed on the roof! I swung around, planting both feet on the shingles, and reached for the scraper...

...which was no longer tucked in my waistband. It lay on the grass next to the ladder.

I let out a mirthless chuckle as the irony of the situation sank in. Well, I thought, as long as I'm here I will accomplish something! I climbed to the rooftop and replaced a section of metal chimney that blew down over the winter. Then I turned and made my slow descent to the ladder, at first upright and stepping lightly, changing to a crabwalk as I approached the roof edge. Then my boot slipped! Just an inch maybe, but far enough to scare the goo out of me! I grabbed the gable and pulled myself to it, replanting my boot and braking my skid.

Regaining my balance, I contemplated my narrow escape from certain death, how foolish I was to climb on the roof again, and how long it would take the township Fire Department to bring a big truck with a basket and two big guys to escort me out of this mess! Finally I thought Okay, if I could stretch out to grab the gable, I can stretch out to the ladder. Inching tenuously down the roof, I held onto the gable and stretched my leg way out until my toes rested firmly on the nearest rung. In one quick motion I lurched onto the ladder, grabbing the rails and making a quick, safe trip to the ground. Then I picked up that infernal scraper and flung it into the cornfield!

That seemed like a good time for a lunch break. After I ate I dug up another scraper and a long pole, with which I scraped the offending woodwork from the safety of the ladder. That completed, I started a regular cycle; up the ladder, prime, prime the other side, and down the ladder. Move the ladder, and repeat. Climb up the big ladder, and repeat. Climb down the big ladder, move the little ladder way over, and repeat. When the whole gable was primed I took a break while the primer dried. It gave me a chance to notice that my calves were plotting a mutiny. Just one more round, guys, I said to my legs, and we'll call it a day. I felt a little strange, talking to my body parts and all, but I felt I had to convince them we were almost through.

As the primer dried I noticed that clouds overcast the blue skies above. I reckoned it to be a good deal as it kept the sun off my neck. I got the paint out of the shed and started up the ladder once more. About halfway up my knees joined the rebellion; I ignored them. By the time I had to climb the big ladder again, ascending too quickly was no longer a problem. In fact, it wasn't even an option. My feet both wanted to stop and rest on every rung, my legs didn't want to push anymore, and my arms didn't want to pull. The neighbors paused to watch me for signs of motion in any direction, fearing that perhaps my heart gave out and stranded me at half-mast. I reached my zenith after what seemed like no more than a half-hour. Cautiously I continued the job, taking great pains to cover every inch of trim, knowing that a void would mean another trip skyward. I pushed paint into every crack and orifice, ensuring that I would have no need to return for as many years as possible.

Fueled only by sheer force of will, I made trip after trip up those ladders, slapping paint on wood until I once again reached the L. A low rumble emanated from under the gable above the roof. That rotten woodwork laughed at me! It seemed to say, "you can't touch me, and you never will!" Fighting the urge to throw the contents of the paint can toward that diabolical mocking laugh, I climbed down the ladder one last time, my hands raw from the non-skid rungs. Time is on my side, I said to the laughter. I'll get you later.

As I lay in bed that night, with portions of my body shouting obscenities for the abuse they endured, I felt glad that I started the work on the back of the house. If I'd started on the front I'd have called it good and abandoned the job. As it is, I still have to finish the front so the neighbors can enjoy the view. A gentle rain started as I drifted to sleep. Somehow I can break the worst of droughts merely by doing exterior painting. The last thing I thought before exhaustion overtook me was, "does paint have to dry for 24 hours before rain?"