The snow on my roof is so high that it is listed as an aviation hazard. I worry about the roof collapsing. I call my insurance agent and she tells me to be safe, and that I should have a rider on my policy that protects me from the effects of falling snow, volcanic ash, acid rain and a sky filled with frogs.

The snow on my roof is so high that it is listed as an aviation hazard. I worry about the roof collapsing.


“What’s that? Was that a creak?”


It’s just the dog stretching, I discover.


I remain hyper-vigilant, nevertheless. I imagine walls shaking like the effects of a P-wave earthquake on the San Andreas Fault. In my mind’s eye, I see the roof crash down and I awaken to being interviewed by one of those titanium, blond television reporters with perfect teeth.


“Was there any warning?” she asks, holding the microphone like a baton.


“I was lucky,” I say. “If I hadn’t taken cover under a bench that held the unabridged dictionary, I would have been crushed by the snow.”


The TV reporter nods but doesn’t say anything and I feel compelled to talk. You can’t have “dead air” on television, after all.


“It sounded like an atomic bomb,” I say, because people say that every time there is a noise. At least I didn’t say it sounded like a hydrogen bomb. Of course, I have never heard either one.


Even if I were to hire five NFL offensive linemen to push the snow off the roof, there is no place left on the ground to put it.


I thought of making life-size snowmen like the Chinese emperor who had 8,000 terracotta soldiers made and installed in his tomb to defend him in the afterlife. Or maybe I should just snow-sculpt some giant unsmiling heads like those on Easter Island.


The snow has crusted over now and is solid enough to support an armored Humvee. My neighbors, of course, have had the snow guys come and shovel off their roofs. After all, unlike me, they are responsible citizens. I have cleared a space for the mailman to come and deposit the late bills, and I have cleared a pathway half way to the house for the oil deliveryman –– he left me a note in my mailbox, and it was firm in tone.


We are supposed to have a full day of melting and I am hoping the snow will settle a bit and be less threatening. But the weather people seem to delight in making these abstruse weight comparisons: “This heavy wet snow is the equivalent of the weight of Neptune,” they opine and smile for the science teachers out there in TV-land.


I run to the bureau dresser to get out my homeowner’s policy. Am I protected, or is this an act of God? I call my insurance agent and she tells me to be safe, and that I should have a rider on my policy that protects me from the effects of falling snow, volcanic ash, acid rain and a sky filled with frogs.


I give up. The humiliation I will suffer asking my neighbors for the telephone number of the snow guys will be epic. I hope there isn’t a camera crew lurking around the corner looking for a snow feature.


Peter Costa is a senior editor with GateHouse Media New England and is the author of two books of humor. His latest, “Outrageous CostaLiving: Still Laughing Through Life,” is available at amazon.com.