Weep Holes

The man fixing my windows was a boat-builder until his fingers curled up and his arms got too weak to portage on dry land. Now he’s taking apart my sash, plaining the edges, hammering a thin sheet of steel that whistles in the air before he anchors it to the wood.

Boatbuilding, he says, is a hard business.

He explains the mechanics of the window, how the sills and the frames are made at the same time and mounted as one piece. It’s always best to keep the original parts together. You can rebuild, he says, but it it’ll never be the same.

When I ask him where he lives he says, “forty miles from here.”

My grandparent’s house was built by a boat-builder. You would see the floor if you tried to look in the mirror hanging on the dining room wall. My grandmother swore there was a keel running through the center of the house.

Don’t ever let the rot spread from the sills.

When he looks outside he sees the brick upon brick of my neighbor’s house, old oak trees in the yard, the swing-set my children don’t use any more, a six-foot tall fence. Lake Michigan is just beyond here, but too far off to see.

Don't ever get a bend in your keel or you'll never sail straight again.

We don’t have a basement. When it rains in the spring I sometimes imagine my house coming loose off its moorings and drifting away from here, leaving the neighbors, the trees, the swing-set and the fence far behind.

Well aren’t you lucky, he says.

He shoves his screwdriver into a hole under the storm window, leans over and blows the dust away. Not many houses have them, he explains. You've got weep holes so nothing can build up. You've got a steady source of escape.

 He wasn't talking about the house.