We just had our roof done last week. Four layers ripped off and a new one placed. We had to. The inspector told us when we moved in: "you'll need to in a few years," and now seven years have passed. Last year we got some drips in the ceiling after rainstorms.
We got different prices, looked at different catalogs, talked to different salespeople. Similar, but not the same. And not cheap. But in the end, we knew we'd never know the final price until it was over. And we'll also never know how things will be after the next big storm until it hits; how the roof will be in three years, in five years, in ten. And would our house be different if we would have used another roofer?
A roof does not think, but it's on the top of the house. And though a brain does all that thinking, let's not forget it's an organ; it's tissue. On the top of the head. On the top of the body.
When this tumor returned some five years ago, I asked five doctors what I should do. I got six different opinions: chemo; radiation alone; radiation and chemo together; no, biopsy first; surgery; no, just wait another six months and let's see what happens.
While I wasn't happy having to make such a decision, I'm happy with the decisions we made.
So when I heard neighbors talking with each other out the window this morning about how they would have done our roof differently, how they didn't like the color, how they disagreed with the roofers' technique, and so on, I was confused. I waited and sipped my coffee. I went for a walk. Three miles. I stared at roof after roof after roof. And when I got to ours from across the street, I
thought ours was the most beautiful roof in the neighborhood. I was pleased with our decision.
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