The Raccoon in the Rafters — Every morning, Gus tapped shingles into rows so straight the foreman joked birds could use them as rulers. Read the full story →
Every morning, Gus tapped shingles into rows so straight the foreman joked birds could use them as rulers. He wanted to finish the front roof before lunch, and the air smelled like sawdust, warm tar paper, and the pepperoni sandwich waiting in his toolbox.
Until one day, a striped tail poked from the rafters. A raccoon in dusty paw prints dragged out Gus’s sandwich bag, wearing a bent nail like a fancy ring. Because of that, Gus missed the next nail and sent it pinging into a bucket below. Because of THAT, every worker looked up just as the raccoon waddled onto the roof edge and sat on the exact shingle Gus needed.
“Rent is one pickle,” Gus whispered. The raccoon chirred, snatched the pickle, and scooted into the open wall where a hollow corner rattled with acorns. Gus nailed a tiny scrap board across the gap, leaving a raccoon-sized door under the eave. By lunch, the row ran straight again, the sandwich was shorter, and Gus felt oddly at home with a roof that had room for mischief. If you check the roof boards closely, you may spot where the pickle rent was paid in sawdust and warm tar paper.
