Halloween, roofers, and Gracie

Today is Halloween, 2023 and it’s the first time that I didn’t put pumpkins on the porch and buy a few bags of candy. There are no jack-o-lanterns this year, no costumes, no little kids to walk through the neighborhood. Instead, I’ll be shutting off the lights, closing the curtains early and ignoring any knocks at the door. It’s not that I’m not into the holiday.  I like it just fine. It’s because I’m getting a new roof put on our 115-year-old house and it’s exhausting, even though I’m not the one doing any of the work. Every day, the roofers pull off a new section of fascia or siding and discover new areas of dry rot. Then, they knock on the door, like the scariest trick-or-treaters of all time, and tell me the job is going to cost more and take longer.  It’s a frightening process with no end in sight. That’s why I’m just not up for anyone else knocking at my door, not even toddlers in adorable costumes. 

My house has history. Our oldest neighbors told us it was once a bordello, which for you young’uns, means, “a house where sex workers did business.” It has plenty of bedrooms, lots of hiding places, and great big rooms for parties. 

At one point, it was home to Gracie Hansen, who the Oregonian called, “the ruling chanteuse of Harvey Dick's Roaring Twenties nightclub in the long-gone Hoyt Hotel.” She was a burlesque show host, a brilliant businesswoman, the biggest money maker at the Seattle World Fair in 1962. a grand dame and the model for nightclub owner/entertainer Walter Cole's alter ego, Darcelle XV. When the realtor showed us the house, she also showed us pictures of her elaborate jewelry spread out on her dining room table, below the dazzling chandelier that hangs there still.  Gracie was the first woman to run for governor of Oregon and though she lost the race, I love knowing that while she lived in my house, she gave it a go. She was outrageous, ostentatious, gregarious, bawdy and, with all the respect the title deserves, Gracie was a great broad. I aspire.

So, here I am, tearing the roof off this old house and finding so much decay. We’re fixing it up (and, damn…that’s expensive) but it all seems like a great big metaphor:  roofing is life.  With all its history, glamour, and beauty, what you see on the outside is not what’s happening below the surface. Underneath everything lies the remnants and ruins of lives that have gone before us. When we tear off the top, we can see what previous residents tried to cover it all up, pretending that none of the damage existed. We see where people tried to fix it a little and then gave up and slapped on some siding…out of sight, out of mind.

It’s like life, right?  Underneath our grand facades, and great costumes, every one of us is made from the lives, mistakes, and magnificence of those who went before us. When we pull off the layers, and look at our histories and genealogies, the trauma and broken bones are obvious. Many of us have tried to patch up the damage with makeup, mistakes, and bad choices. Others have ignored the damage altogether and limped along with no excuses. But some of us have taken a closer look at what’s right below the surface. We’re doing the work to eliminate the rot and replace it with solid boards. 

When the job is finally done, I’ll have a new roof and this grand, glamorous house will last for many more years and many other families. I’ll celebrate Halloween again next year when there are fewer roofing nails scattered around. And, in a hundred years, maybe this house will still be standing. Some other family will open the front door and welcome trick-or-treaters and maybe they’ll put a pumpkin on the porch.