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June was a very wet month in Edmonton. It rained nearly every day. Sometimes, it poured. And sometimes when it poured, it also blew – hard. Near the end of the month, rain fell for three days straight, while the wind gusted at times from 90 to 110 kilometres per hour.
The downspout from the upper roof of our home emptied onto the lower roof, from where the precipitation rippled across the shingles, disappeared into the eaves, down the pipe attached to the bricks next to the family room window and out onto the lawn.
In the middle of the night on the third straight day of rain, all the water and wind that had played on the roof over all the years succeeded in lifting the corner of one or two shingles. First a little rain, then a lot, snuck under the protective, overlapping asphalt tiles and leaked into our family room through the pot lights in the ceiling.
Around 5: 00 a.m., as the sun was rising on the upper side of the clouds, I was awakened by a dripping sound. Climbing down the stairs, I found some of the rain that should have been running out onto the lawn falling by drips and spoonfuls onto the rug in two places, as well as onto the middle of a large, overstuffed ottoman.