Chicken Little Insulation Installation

Chicken Little Insulation Installation

 

“Chicken Little Insulation Installation.” This post was originally written in August of 2012. Be prepared for some fantastic photos of awesomeness. Or not. They might cause the photographers among you to cringe. Or be blinded. Simply focus on the story because that’s the star of the show.

 I will casually and calmly say that what appears to be shredded [and then fluffified] newspaper and snow in our living room is actually [drum roll, please] shredded [fluffed] newspaper in the form of insulation topped with more insulation. [It was an enormous mess.]

We decided to join the Energy Efficiency Team and opted to add insulation to the attic. Of course, by “we” I mean we hired a company to come and take care of everything. I let them into the house, directed them to the attic, and decided to pass the time by writing a blog post.

Is was also the day of a performance: “Hello, Dolly!” at the Old Barn Theatre. I was Dolly and had already gone through the script, the blocking, all the songs, and the choreography earlier in the day. All of that simply indicates that the day had gone pretty much as planned. I even had my makeups on. [Say the previous sentence with a southern accent and it will make the important difference.]

Okay, so then the events of the day took a big step in the direction of definitely NOT going as planned. Here comes the punch line: one of the insulation team members [there were two of them and apparently one was being trained] fell through our ceiling.

Fell through our ceiling.

You understand the whole Chicken Little Insulation Installation title, right? “The sky is falling, the sky is falling!”

Now I realize that you might be thinking the same thing that I’m thinking about training a person to install insulation in an attic. First of all, I’m no pro. Don’t even think that that’s what I’m thinking because you would be in error. Air-or. But if I was being trained to install insulation in an attic I would anticipate some instructions about where to step and where not to step.

Step on the beams. The ceiling is NOT a floor. Walk on the beams. Walk here [hands showing the length and thickness of a beam]. Don’t walk here [hands gesturing more widely indicating the space between the beams]. And then maybe there would be a pretend attic [like a model of an attic] laid out on a driveway or in some parking lot made out of popsicle sticks, or bricks, or pieces of wood, or maybe even rocks. You could even pretend that in between the beams was lava. Molten lava. [You know exactly how to play that game, don’t you. You don’t touch the molten lava part or you die.]

No big deal. A man fell through the ceiling. He didn’t escape injury [stitches in his hand] — but nothing worse. Which is a wonder.

It was raining man for a very short moment.

I was at the computer desk [as I am at this moment].

*CrAcK*

-Pause [It’s just not a sound you hear coming from the ceiling.]

— Stand [I felt like investigating, and I’m the boss of me.]

— See [the man falling through the ceiling and catch himself–he’s holding onto a beam.]

— Stare and simultaneously utter, “Are you okay, sir?”

— More staring [I ran and grabbed his legs–certainly not because I was glad to see him, and not to pull him down–but to guide his legs to the banister.]

— Breathe [inhale is a better word–as in a couple of tons of insulation–it’s raining fiberglass and fluffy newspaper–neither of which actually belong in my lungs.]

— Shout [as I’m holding onto the guy’s legs and simultaneously guiding him to the banister]“He fell through the ceiling!”

The other team member came racing down the attic stairs shouting the falling man’s name. [I don’t remember what it was.]

“He fell through the ceiling!”

He knew.

Intuition?

No.

Evidence.

He ran to the truck to turn off the steady flow of insulation spewing from the new entrance. And by “new” I mean very recently made.

By now, “falling man” has become “standing on the floor man” and I notice that he’s somehow dripping blood on the floor.

“I think you’ve injured yourself.”

 I’m okay.

“You’re really not.”

[At this point I can’t identify where the blood is coming from and believe me I’m quickly looking.]

He repeats, “I’m okay.”

“You’re truly not, because [pointing to the floor] you’re bleeding.”

 I realize he’s probably in shock and instruct him to stay where he is while I grab a dishcloth. Well, two dishcloths, because I have to get the blood off of the floor before my brain freaks out about it.

I realize it’s coming from his hand and discover that he’s torn a rather large chunk of the skin back. [No more details than that, I promise.] I put the dishcloth on his wound and then instruct him to press hard on it. And please sit down.

By then, his insulation installation buddy comes back in the house apologizing.

[This is my end of the conversation. Think of it as hearing only one side of a phone conversation.]

“He’s wounded.”

“Yes, there is a hole in the ceiling.”

“Is there someone that can take him to the hospital? His wife? Will you call his wife, please?”

“Continue to hold that rag tightly, please.”

“Is his wife coming?”

“Great.”

“No. I’d say let’s finish with the installation after we figure out the hole in the ceiling part.”

“Yes, it is a big mess.”

BaM!

It’s so fluffy.

 

We are left with a very fine [as in texture] layer of insulation on every little, big, high, and low thing in the universe of our house.

We cleaned it up. [Odd little bits of insulation showed up for weeks afterwards.]

The ceiling was eventually repaired–aaaand of course it became a great story.

Every time I think about the incident, I turn on that one song about men raining down everywhere and dance.