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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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Last weekend, a painter came by to fix a wall where I’d made an unsightly mess trying to remove a finger mark so small I should have ignored it. Instead, I used an alcohol wipe to scrub it and took off a large area of pigment. The wipes worked well on the white walls of my past. If a bit of color came off, who noticed? But about five years ago, when television decorating shows said white is out, color is in, I believed them. My living area is now caramel-colored beige. Pretty until you rub out a spot and the color comes with it.
My attempt to touch up the spot with left over paint didn’t work. It didn’t blend in properly; the blemish tripled in size. When workers were here to hang a light fixture, I asked if they could fix the blotch for me. No problem, they said. The area just needed to be “feathered.” I ended up with a larger stain. One surrounded with feathery edges. I decided to engage a pro.
Too bad I couldn’t do the same 43 years ago when my husband and I moved into the lower half of a Minneapolis duplex. I was long overdue with our first child and she decided to arrive the day after our move. We’d made a deal with the landlord that we would paint the place ourselves but he took pity on us and helped my hubby with the nursery while I was in the hospital. At the time, my husband was in school and worked a job on the third shift. Being alone with a new baby at night scared the you-know-what out of me. I stayed awake watching TV until the last station signed off and then sat in bed with the light on. Every sound was that of a serial killer’s footstep coming up from the basement steps outside the back hallway door. Usually, I fell asleep before the axe murderer could break in but one night, I decided to do something different. I would surprise my husband by painting the living room.
I took the cans of new white paint, along with masking tape, brushes and rollers, and a metal tray, from the coat closet where the landlord had left them. Forcing myself to be brave, I opened the door to the back hall as fast as I could, grabbed the ladder leaning against the wall, and pulled it into the kitchen. I covered the floor with an old sheet and got to work. There was no overhead lighting in the room so every time I moved the ladder I pulled two floor lamps along with it. By six the next morning I was finished. It was still dark outside so I leaned my head against the couch to wait for my hubby’s return.
“Close your eyes and wait there,” I called to him when I heard his key in the lock. I took his hand and walked him towards the living room “Tada! I painted the whole living room while you were gone,” I exclaimed. He started to laugh. With the morning sun coming in the window, it was clear I’d missed some areas. In fact, the effect was one of stripes. Bold white stripes over the mustard color choice of the previous owner.
“Some day, I’m going to have enough money to hire a painter,” I said to my husband’s backside as he headed to the bedroom and I pulled out the ladder again.