Wallpaper and Paint
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Our story tonight is called Wallpaper and Paint.
And it's a story about a room in a cottage by the lake that is ready for redoing.
It's also about a clawfoot tub
and an airy kitchen with beams criss-crossing the ceiling, the faded patches of wall behind pictures, ferns and seagrass, binoculars and stir sticks, and the wonderfully satisfying feeling.
of peeling away the old and laying out the new.
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Okay,
you are
exactly where you are supposed to be right now.
There's nothing you need to keep track of.
Nothing more is needed of you.
Get as comfortable as you can.
Unclench your jaw.
soften your shoulders
and hands,
and feel the touch of your sheets and pillow.
You are about to fall asleep,
and you will sleep deeply
all night.
Draw a slow breath in
and sigh out
again.
Fill up
and sigh.
Good.
Wallpaper and paint
Beside my chair,
where my binoculars hang for bird watching through the big picture window,
I noticed a small rip in the wallpaper,
a curl of paper
sticking out
just a half inch
and as wide as my pinky.
I reached out to touch it,
trying
very hard not to pull on it.
When I was a kid,
my mom had papered the powder room near our front door.
She'd been very careful about lining up the edges
and matching the border to the dark blue of the stripe.
And it had remained fairly pristine for several years.
But we,
her children,
and I suspect even her husband
had begun to peel it away
whenever we found ourselves alone in there.
It was too much to resist
the satisfying feeling
of sliding a finger under a spot where the paper had puckered and pulled away,
and to slowly
and in as big a strip as possible
remove it from the wall.
Oh, my poor mother
Over the course of a summer,
her pretty, elegant powder room
had been denuded
and as our destructive mischief always happened behind closed doors,
she could never even catch us in the act.
I smiled,
remembering how that summer had ended,
with my brother and I
standing shoulder to shoulder
in the small room, with the steamer and scraper in our hands,
and piles of gluey strips at our feet.
Mom had switched to paint after that.
I must not have learned my lesson, though.
As soon as my fingertip found the curl of paper beside my chair,
a frisson of excitement went through me.
This was my house.
If I wanted to peel away the paper,
I didn't have to hide it.
I could change anything I wanted.
And suddenly, I wanted to change this room.
My house is
more of a cottage, really.
It sits on a bluff that slopes down to a lake.
The rooms are a bit small,
and there are only a few closets and cupboards in the whole place.
But I have a stone fireplace
and butcher block counters, well treated with mineral oil.
There is a claw-foot bathtub
in the single bathroom.
And when you open the windows in the loft,
even on the hottest summer days,
cool air from the lake washes in
and makes me dream of lily pads as I sleep.
The kitchen was airy and white,
with wood beams in the ceiling that I hang copper pans from,
and slate floors warmed up with woolly rugs.
The loft is strung with fairy lights,
and my bed made up with a giant sprigged cotton duvet
so soft and inviting,
it's difficult to get out of on rainy days.
But this room, with my chair and the fireplace,
now that I looked at it,
yes, it was time for an update.
The wallpaper had a dark green and grey background,
with oversized stems of Queen Anne's lace,
and ferns unfurling from their fiddleheads.
I'd always loved it.
It made me feel like Alice,
shrunk down in the garden.
But it was faded in places where pictures had hung,
leaving squares of brighter colors behind them,
like better tuned television screens
among a sea of muted greenery.
It also hadn't been pasted on very well.
There were air bubbles in places,
spots where the pattern didn't match with the strip beside it.
And if you looked at it too long, you might begin to feel a bit cross-eyed.
So I pushed the furniture
to the center of the room,
tossed an old flat sheet over it,
and rolled up my sleeves.
I'd done some reading on it, and had a collection of tools to help me with my project.
a scorer that would pop tiny holes into the paper
to let water or solvent slip behind it and loosen the glue.
A steamer and scraper,
and a few spray bottles.
But before I put any of those implements to work,
I indulged myself in just reaching for that little tail
of dried-out paper and slowly pulling it away from the wall.
I had a sudden visceral memory
of peeling the paper in the powder room.
How often it would split or rip immediately.
I'd come away with a tiny scrap in my hand,
decidedly unsatisfying.
But every once in a while
you'd have just the right angle on it,
and a huge sheet would come off.
It reminded me of the feeling of trying to get the dregs of a finished candle from its jar
when it unsticks from the glass
and pops out in one whole piece
and much of my grown-up living room
was like that for me now
the paper must have been very old.
It was asking to come down in many places,
and I could just slide my finger or the corner of my scraper under it
and feel a chain reaction of popping
as it released along the sheet
and fell to my feet.
There were a few spots
around the windows and mantle
where I did use the score and the steam.
I gave the stubborn pieces a few minutes to soak up and soften,
and then scraped them away as well.
When the walls were clear and paper-free,
I opened all the windows
and gave them a day or two to dry out.
I'd picked a beautiful pale green sea foam color that matched the lake on hazy days.
And after I'd primed and taped,
I opened up a fresh can of it and and stirred it slowly.
Even this part,
prying open the lid,
stirring the thick liquid with a long, clean stir stick,
and pouring it into my rolling tray,
was full of pleasing moments.
I became mesmerized as I worked,
rolling out the paint,
watching it spread and soak into the wall,
the white primer overtaken by the soft, minty green.
Did I still have a favorite color?
I asked myself.
This must be it, I answered.
Outside the seagrass bowed in the breeze,
and from far off on the lake
I could hear the splash of swimmers,
their voices and laughter jumbled and ringing
like chimes in the distance.
When the paint was dry,
and I peeled off the tape,
re hung my pictures,
and arranged the furniture,
I thought I might send a picture of the finished room to my mother.
A nod to all the hard work it took to pull a space together
that I understood better how she'd felt
and had learned not just to tear down,
but to rebuild.
Wallpaper and Paint
Beside my chair,
where my binoculars hung
for bird watching through the big picture window,
I noticed noticed a small rip in the wallpaper,
a curl
sticking out
just a half inch
and as wide as my pinky.
I reached out to touch it,
trying
very hard
not to pull on it.
When I was a kid
My mom had papered the powder room
near our front door
She'd been very careful
about lining up the edges
and matching the border
to the dark blue of the stripe
and it had remained fairly pristine
for several years.
But we,
her children,
and I suspect
even her husband
had begun to peel it away
whenever we found ourselves alone in there.
It was too much to resist
the satisfying feeling
of sliding a finger
under a spot
where the paper had puckered and pulled away
and to slowly
and in as big a strip as possible
remove it from the wall.
Oh, my poor mother.
Over the course of a summer,
her pretty, elegant powder room
had been denuded,
and
as our destructive mischief always happened behind closed doors,
she could never even catch us in the act.
I smiled,
remembering how that summer had ended,
with my brother and I
standing shoulder to shoulder
in the small room with with the steamer and scraper in our hands
and piles of gluey strips at our feet.
Mom had switched to paint after that.
I must not have learned my lesson, though,
as soon as my fingertip
found the curl of paper beside my chair,
a frisson
of excitement
went through me.
This was my house.
If I wanted
to peel away the wallpaper,
I didn't have to hide it.
I could change anything I wanted.
And suddenly,
I wanted to change this room.
My house is
more of a cottage, really.
It sits on a bluff
that slopes down to a lake.
The rooms are a bit small,
and there are only a few closets and cupboards in the whole place.
But
I have a stone fireplace
and butcher block counters,
well treated with mineral oil.
There is a claw-foot bathtub
in the single bathroom,
and when you open the windows in the loft,
even on the hottest summer days,
cool air from the lake
washes in
and makes me dream of lily pads while I sleep.
The kitchen was airy and white,
with wood beams in the ceiling
that
I hang copper pans from,
and slate floors warmed up
with woolly rugs.
The loft is strung with fairy lights,
and my bed made up with a giant
sprigged cotton duvet
So soft,
uninviting
it is difficult to get out of on rainy days.
But this room
with my chair
and fireplace
now that I looked at it,
yes,
it was time for an update.
The wallpaper had a dark green and gray background
with oversized stems of Queen Anne's lace
and ferns unfurling from their fiddleheads.
I'd always loved it.
It made me feel like Alice,
shrunk down in the garden.
But it was faded in places
where pictures had hung
leaving squares of brighter colors behind them
like better tuned television screens among a sea
of muted greenery
but also
hadn't been pasted on very well.
There were air bubbles in places
spots where the pattern didn't match
with the strip beside it.
And if you looked at it too long,
you might begin to feel a bit cross eyed.
So I pushed the furniture to the center of the room,
tossed an old flat sheet over it,
and rolled up my sleeves.
I'd done some reading on it
and had a collection of tools
to help with my project.
A score
that would pop tiny holes into the paper
to let water
or solvent slip behind it and loosen the glue,
a steamer and scraper,
and a few spray bottles.
But before before I put any of those implements to work,
I indulged myself
in just
reaching for that little tail of dried-out paper
and slowly pulling it away from the wall.
I had a sudden visceral memory
of peeling the paper in the powder room,
how often it would split
or rip immediately,
and I'd come away with a tiny scrap in my hand,
decidedly unsatisfying.
But every once in a while,
you'd have
just the right angle on it,
and a huge sheet
would come off.
It reminded me of the feeling
of trying to get the dregs of a finished candle from its jar
when it unsticks from the glass
and pops out
in one whole piece.
And much of my grown-up living room
was like that for me now.
The paper must have been very old.
It was asking to come down in many places.
And I could just slide my finger
or the corner of my scraper
under it
and feel
a chain reaction of popping
as it released along the sheet
and fell to my feet.
There were a few spots around the windows and mantle
where I did use the score
and the steam.
I gave the stubborn pieces
a few minutes to soak up
and soften,
and then scraped them away as well.
When the walls were clear
and paper free,
I opened all the windows
and gave them a day to dry out.
I'd picked a beautiful pale green sea foam color
that matched the lake on hazy days.
And after I'd primed and taped,
I opened up a fresh can of it
and stirred it slowly.
even this
prying open the lid,
stirring the thick liquid
with a long, clean stir stick
and pouring it into my rolling tray
was full of pleasing moments.
I became mesmerized as I worked,
rolling out the paint,
watching it spread and soak into the wall,
the white primer,
overtaken
by the soft, minty green.
Did I still have a favorite color?
I asked myself.
This must be it, I answered.
Outside the seagrass bowed in the breeze,
and from far off on the lake,
I could hear the splash of swimmers,
their voices and laughter,
jumbled and ringing like chimes in the distance.
When the paint was dry
and I peeled off the tape,
re hung my pictures,
and arranged the furniture,
I thought I might send a picture of the finished room
to my mother.
A nod
to all the hard work it took
to pull a space together
that I understood better
how she'd felt
and had learned
not just to tear down,
but to rebuild
sweet dreams.