Roof Is Rotting  I'm at a rock climbing gymnasium with my classmate Doug and others. I tie the rope knot to hold me. I look on the wall for the best place to climb: the easiest with the most holds. My brother Wally arrives. He tells me to go straight up the middle. After looking for the right path, I climb straight up. The holds are thin aluminum-like holds. I make it 2/3 of the way up, where the roof meets the side of my home. I'm climbing on the side of my home in Oak Valley. I stop when I reach the roof, hanging on, putting my butt into the wall. I put my hand and foot in small door-like openings: holds. I don't climb on the roof because it's rotting. I easily tear off a piece of dead rotting wood, soggy and decaying. There are wooden steps running up to the side of the house to an entrance at the level where I am. I climb over and down, onto and over steps, to climb down the other side of them. The steps are rotting wood, with pieces missing. Some steps are decaying with rusty nails protruding from them. I carefully cross over this dangerous staircase to the other side where I'll climb down. I fall 15 or 20 feet into the soft leaves that have collected on the ground. Wally has not kept the rope that is holding me tight. I'm okay. Wally has big puffy green mittens for climbing. Doug let me use his chalk for my sweaty hands. My grade school classmate Kari Otis is there at some point, and says something to Wally or I. Wally has nibs or bullets, which are chicken, and french fries, which are dehydrated.