DIANE MAKAR MURPHY I may be black and blue, but I see it as a trophy

I'm sitting here with a knot on my forehead obtained from an argument I had with an attic fan. It's turning black and blue, but I don't care. It's a trophy for the human race.
For those who dwell in the 21st century and have central air conditioning, let me explain what an attic fan is. It mounts somewhere in the ceiling of a home's top floor, penetrating the drywall or plaster so that it's half in the attic and half in the house proper.
On summer evenings, it draws hot air from the home, into the attic and out the gable vents.
In the winter, it is a hole in the ceiling through which gas dollars flow. For this reason, attic fans are disabled before the first snows fall. In my home, the attic fan is on a nifty hinge. One is to push the hinged fan into the attic and slide a specially fitted piece of wood into its place.
He-woman shove
Simple, eh? Perhaps it was, 40 years ago when the house was built. Now, Mother Time has taken her toll, and the attic fan wedges in the warped rafters. Typically, a good, he-woman shove solves the problem.
Now, back to the story.
I began by putting a stepladder beneath the attic fan. I extended my arms upward and pushed the heavy, caged fan toward the peak of the roof. As expected, it got stuck.
I inhaled deeply, then, like a guy hoisting a barbell, exhaled and pushed. Nothing. "OK. I just need more leverage," I thought. "A taller ladder."
In the meantime, Zeke, my dog was lying on the second to top step of the stairs, staring out the front window. He glanced my way.
Into the ice-cold garage I went, retrieving a 6-foot aluminum ladder that I could handily carry into the house, barely cuffing a wall or two on the way. I placed it, climbed, and shoved again. Nothing. I pulled the fan back down, careful not to squeeze my knuckles between the enormous fan guard and the attic floorboards. Then, I shoved again. It wedged tightly.
I ascended the ladder another step. It wobbled on the carpeting, but, undeterred, I yanked the fan off the rafter and let it rest on my chest as I tried to figure out what to do.
It crushed against my lungs. I recalled a recent news story in which a person died because someone sat upon his chest.
I also recalled taking judo with Sally Tezzie in the 11th grade. One exercise required you to wrestle a partner from your knees. One move was to flip your competitor onto her back and lay upon her chest until she couldn't muster the energy to push you off. Tezzie weighed a scant 90 pounds, but she beat me repeatedly with the throw-and-lay move.
Stubborn persistence
Anyway, I pushed the fan back up before it "Tezzied" me to death and left me dangling there for the husband and daughter to find.
I called my husband. "The attic fan won't move at all," I said. "It's wedged against the rafters. What can I use to trim the metal?"
"No, don't do that," he said. "You may compromise the structural integrity." He really talks like that. "Just leave it. I'll take care of it when I come home."
Now, I don't know about you, but once I've invested 20 minutes in a project and an attic fan is getting the best of me, I don't throw in the towel.
I said, "OK," then went back to the garage and retrieved tin snips and a hacksaw.
Now I mounted the ladder to a new high and climbed through the hole until my head touched the rafters, too. I tried cutting the metal; it wouldn't cut.
Back to the garage for a planer. Back into the hole. I shaved the wood off the beam, but I couldn't push hard enough to make any leeway.
OK. Back to square one. I just needed to shove that baby with all my might. I stepped down a rung. Gruuuuuunt! Still wedged. One more time. I pulled back on the fan, but it wouldn't move. I pulled again, harder.
The fan came flying like a metal meteor.
Wham! My forehead took it just above the left eye, and the side of my nose fired an alarm!
I stumbled down the ladder, looked into the bathroom mirror, then grabbed an ice pack from the freezer. "You & amp;^%$#* fan!" I screamed.
The gloves were off. I came back with a hammer. I am happy that the only one in the house that day was my dog -- who now knows every cuss word ever uttered and some new ones of my own invention.
But I won, my friends! Wo-man over object; a large victory in the 21st century.
I then strutted about the house with my ice pack.
murphy@vindy.com