You know, I always say that you don't REALLY own your house, till you've seen it without a roof.
We've been in our house for 13 years. It's the first house we bought, and I'll probably only leave it when they carry out my cold dead body. I love it that much. It's an older (70 years old) house, in a historical neighborhood. Gorgeous place, 'tis -- but surrounded by ghetto.
Few years ago, we had to replace the roof. Replace, meaning, strip off the old layers down to the rafters, and then put it back up. There is a custom at our church: whenever someone in the group needs a new roof, or some big project, the guys would get together and do the work. The homeowner just supplies the materials, and lunch. I call it an Amish Barn Raising.
So, the first of the guys arrived at 7:30am promptly, and within an hour or so, they were all hard at work. I made lunch whilst shingles flew. When we sat down to break bread, I asked, very nonchalantly, who would be the best bet for an injury. (These guys all biked together, and had a trophy that went around, involving bike wrecks. But that's another story.)
Dave raised his hand, admitting that HE was the best bet.
Next day at lunch, I remarked how wonderful it was that we hadn't had any injuries or accidents. Come to find out, Dave had slid off the roof earlier in the day. Didn't get hurt, but definitely slid from the top. ::sigh:: THEN, hubby shares his now broken, very crooked finger. A finger which is still crooked, to this day, because MEN DON'T GO TO THE ER. Even when bones are almost sticking out. ::sigh::