Wallpaper and Paint

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Welcome to bedtime stories for everyone

in which

nothing much happens.

You feel good

and then

you fall asleep.

I'm Catherine Nikolai.

I create everything you hear and nothing much happens.

Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.

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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 claw foot tub

and an airy kitchen with beams crisscrossing 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 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 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 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 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 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 finger tip

found the curl of paper beside my chair,

a frison

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. 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 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.

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 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.