We bought our old house three years ago and before the bank would give us a mortgage the property had to be inspected. We suspected that the roof was going to be a problem. We were right.
The inspector came down from his ladder smirking. “Your roof is in bad shape,” he said. He said that that in 30 years of doing inspections he had never seen a worse roof. He said he was amazed the roof was still attached to the walls. He said that if there were a magazine called “Bad Roofs Monthly” this house would be on the cover. “This roof is shot,” he said with satisfaction, almost gloating; why do these people just love giving bad news?
“It’s not my roof,” I told him, “we’re considering buying this place.”
The inspector was delighted. “You’ll never get a mortgage with this roof,” he said. “Can I tell the owner?”
I sighed; none of this was a surprise; the house was over 50 years old and still had the original roof on it, but thankfully the owner of the house, who was absolutely desperate to sell it, agreed to fix the roof prior to the sale. The deal went through and we moved in.
The roofer gave us a one year warranty on the repairs and, true to his word the roof did not leak for the first year we lived there, but on Day 366 we had a heavy rain and we were suddenly able to take a shower in our hallway. We put down buckets. For the next two years we kept putting down buckets, and more buckets, every time it rained until on rainy days we had to maneuver around buckets and pots in every room of the house. Then, several weeks ago after a light shower we ended up with a puddle in the hallway that was so large that our big dog, Ali, was able to splash around in it.
“It’s time,” I said to my partner; I was drying Ali and he was drying the floor. “I know,” he said grimly.
We started by asking friends and neighbors for referrals and ended up with three different roofing contractors who had been in business for a while and, we were assured, were not crooks. When choosing a roofer “not a crook” is a major selling point.
Choosing the actual roof was easy; we decided to replace the old white tile roof with a new white tile roof, mainly because I can still hear my father, a General Contractor, saying, “Florida roofs are supposed to be white. Dark roofs turn your house into an oven.”
The first roofer was very highly recommended by a neighbor. He looked at the roof and wrote up an estimate on the spot. The estimate looked reasonable so I asked him to come inside to answer some questions I had. He came into the house, looked at Ali who looked back at him without interest, and gave me some brochures.
“Well,” he said, shaking my hand, “talk it over with the wife and give me a call.”
“I don’t have a wife,” I said levelly. “I have a partner.”
He patted me manfully on the shoulder. “That’s your business,” he said pleasantly, “I don’t judge.” He said good bye and his estimate was in the trash before he was out of the driveway.
The second roofer’s estimate was within dollars of the first estimate. He was a fat man with long blonde hair and a dirty shirt who reeked of tobacco. When he came into the house to give us the estimate Ali, usually the worlds’ friendliest dog, put her hackles up and began to bark fiercely. “Shut up, Dog,” said the second roofer and his estimate was in the trash before he was even in his car.
The third roofer was professional but not overly chatty and his estimate was a good bit higher than the other two, but on the way out he said, very matter-of-factly, “Talk it over with your partner and let me know.” Then he bent down and gave Ali a hug. “See you later, Ali-Gator,” he told her, after she was done kissing his face.
He got the job.