And there was always something in an old house that needed fixing, replacing, or changing. Last winter, her wood-burning fireplace smoked so bad she’d gone and gotten herself one of those pretty self-vented gas fireplaces. You couldn’t be without heat in case a bad storm came and the electric went, like it had in 1993. Mother of all storms they’d called it, and folks up in the mountains died of cold before help could reach them. That weren’t gonna happen to Ida.

Eddy’s big truck roared down the road, sending dust flying. He pulled into Ida’s driveway, turned off the engine, got out, and slammed the truck’s door behind him. He was a big man, tall and heavyset, and had a way of making his presence known. Now his footsteps on the front steps and through the house to the backyard sounded to Ida like those of a giant. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Arms folded cross his chest, Eddy towered over the women. “What’s the problem over here?”

June explained.

“There weren’t no holes two months ago,” he said, but at June’s insistence Eddy went into the shed they’d bought at Lowe’s last summer and set up out back for Ida, dragged out the extension ladder, and stationed it against the wall of the house.

“You get a good hold on this here ladder,” he said to his wife. Then he began to climb, the ladder trembling with every step. He called down to them, “Far as I can see, no sagging anywhere, no rust, and no holes. The gutter’s clean as a whistle and in good shape.” The ladder shook as he climbed back down. He rubbed his hands together. “You got me over here for this?”

“And that fellow told Mama that a tree limb’s about to fall on the roof and make a hole.”

“How’d he know that?” Eddy asked.

“He climbed up my short ladder. He leaned it against the tree,” Ida said. Her throat felt dry and grainy, as if she’d inhaled a mouthful of dust still floating in the air from Eddy’s big old truck tires.

Ida trailed June and Eddy around the side of the house to the oak, which had been growing out front for as long as she could remember. Eddy set the short ladder against the trunk, and soon his head and shoulders vanished among the branches and leaves. When he descended, he said, “This tree ain’t got no split branches. Any chance a limb might get blown off by a high wind and land on the roof is mighty small, and if it did, it wouldn’t do a lick of damage. So, you got nothing to worry about, Ida.” He laughed a hearty laugh. “That fellow was gonna make him a pile of money off of you. Good thing he never came back.”