A flat tire, a tomboyish girl on dad’s right hand, and an endless leak in the roof.
My father purchased two acres of land in Killington when my older brother, Jack, left home to attend the University of New Hampshire to study forestry. Our younger brother Billy played football in high school, so he didn’t have much free time on the weekends. So Mom, Dad, our lab Highland Blackstar, and I headed north into the Green Mountain Wilderness unless we convinced a friend to join us on a once-in-a-lifetime (work) adventure. .
On our way to Vermont on our weekly pilgrimage to build a ski lodge in Killington, our station wagon doubled as a Mack truck, so blowing tires was not uncommon. Dad was always looking for used tires that were good enough to last another year. Once our shoes are bare and there are no footprints left, it’s time to put on our next “new” pair. Dad did tire juggling.
A flat tire was a big deal, but Dad had all the right equipment. He extinguished the flare, but the car was so full that it took 30 minutes to access a spare flare. Night and day, we unloaded boxes, suitcases, and furniture onto lawns and sidewalks, back roads and highways as huge trucks and cars sped by. It was hard enough during the day, but in the dark it was dangerous and it was easy to drop things on the side of the road. I held a flashlight and lug nuts while my dad did the hard dirty work. We managed to finish work and head north, arriving in Killington late at night.
But there was a problem with the engine that my mechanically savvy dad couldn’t fix, so we slept in the car in the gas station parking lot until the mechanic came. After repairs were completed we hurried to Killington so as not to waste Saturday’s time.
Out of necessity, I became my father’s right-hand man after spending weekends in Vermont. When we worked together, I was often the other one. Luckily, I was a tomboy at heart, so I loved this. The mother was fed up and had run out of patience, standing and waiting in the heat, rain, shivering in the cold, enduring the wind, while the father tightened or changed something. So demoted me her job which she refused.
I got used to holding my dad’s wrenches, flashlights, screwdrivers, crowbars, etc. I didn’t really care. I loved helping my dad, but I found it uncomfortable leaning over the engine until my ribs hurt, bending under the chassis to avoid oil, and holding onto the other side of something. I was often tired. I wanted to keep playing, but I didn’t want to hurt Daddy’s feelings, abandon him, or slow down his progress. So I carried on like a soldier.
And I felt bad for my dad, who worked 24/7 in both New Jersey and Vermont fixing broken things like our cars, washers, dryers, plumbing, electrical, appliances, and supplies. I did. One day I asked: “Dad, aren’t you tired of fixing all of Caputo’s things?”
“No, Honey Bunch. I love figuring out what’s wrong and what it takes to make it work.”
That’s when I realized that Daddy didn’t need my sympathy. He just wanted me to have a flashlight. “I think that’s the appeal of being an engineer.”
“Yes, Bob!” Dad agreed.
With three college-bound children (the eldest is a freshman at UNH), high taxes and a mortgage on their Upper Montclair home, building a vacation home in Vermont was on a tight budget. It was a luxury to have. Her father’s salary and her mother’s piano lessons (due to additional requests and unplanned expenses) were barely enough to cover the household expenses. So my father planned and researched the construction process in Vermont, and he spread the cost out over weeks. Recycled materials and sales helped. But he was also a perfectionist, making sure to evaluate each step of the process.
That’s why we thought our temporary roof would keep us safe from rain, ice, and snow, but boy, were we wrong. It was well made for a tar paper roof, but it was flat so it retained some moisture. Every weekend, more cracks appeared in the joints and leaks were found between the old and new. Fragile seams and tar paper made activities at the top dangerous. Especially in cold climates, it becomes brittle and cracks easily.
As the weather cleared, I climbed onto the roof following the instructions my father shouted from below. He tapped the leaking ceiling with a hammer. He circled the spot where he had made the pencil mark. Once the sun came out again and the roof was dry, I applied gooey tar to his seams and crossed his fingers to drill holes and stop all leaks. In many cases, there were cracks or leaks nearby, but they were invisible and mysteriously dripping. It had to be accurate, but it was difficult to communicate and the battle with leakage continued…
My mom’s friends in New Jersey were very interested in us disappearing to Vermont for a weekend to build the “Vermont Clare” ski lodge.
When they asked her, “Do you have running water?” her mother replied, “If it rains, yes!”
So we ran full speed ahead with buckets and pails as we found more water dripping while the temporary roof remained for years.
Margaret Jill Dye is an artist and writer who divides her time between Killington and Florida.
