Upon rising yesterday morning I glanced out the window and saw that a section of the garage roof had been torn open. My first thought was space junk. Or a wheel from a passing plane. Or a chemical explosion, given the crap we have in there.

After breakfast I climbed up and saw that the damage was restricted to a 2'-by-2' square, with only a few shingles broken. The repair took less than an hour, during which time it occurred to me that whatever wanted in might be back, and that my patch, hammered into two layers of disintegrating shingles, would be laughed at by nest-seeking raccoons.

At some point this summer I will replace the roof, a job I might take on myself. I have never shingled a roof before, but I'm sure I can find out how online.

The last person to shingle this roof was a seventy-four-year-old man. Judy's father -- George Radul. Yesterday was his birthday. He would have been 94.