through your budget.
For
example: Vergie’s front porch had three floorboards that were obviously new. If
I repainted the entire porch floor, then the peeling banisters would look even
worse, the blue exterior would seem more faded, and the front door would look
dingy. Before long I’d be painting the entire exterior because of a few
floorboards.
My
solution: Paint those new boards a matching color, then do a wash on the whole
porch to blend it together. Scuff it up a bit to make it look “farmhouse chic,”
and it would go with the rest of the exterior. Historic farmhouses were
supposed to have scuffs and scratches—but they needed to look like those flaws
had been protected like memories while the structure held its integrity. That
way, the flaws were called “character” and not “disrepair.”
My
way took more creativity than your average contractor had. Others couldn’t be
trusted with those details.
We
started with the downstairs study. My favorite part of the room was the
floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with Vergie’s books—travel guides, Creole
cookbooks, and a slew of paperback westerns and romances. I pulled a book off
the shelf and wondered if Jack had ever peeked inside one.
Those
built-in shelves meant less wall space to deal with. A blessing, because the
peeling wallpaper had to go. I had chosen a neutral buttercream that wouldn’t
make the ceiling look dingy and would be a nice complement to the dark wood of
the bookcases and trim. The floral patterned sofa and green wingback chair had
enough vintage appeal. They would stay.
“Did
you ever meet the friend Vergie was living with?” I asked.
“Yeah,
George I think was his name. Sweet old guy. Worked over at the jazz museum in
New Orleans.”
“Vergie
moved in with a man?”
Jack
shrugged. “They’d been together a long time.”
I’d
always assumed she was living here alone, because she was alone when I visited
in the summers. It had never occurred to me that she could have had a
boyfriend.
It
made me happy for a minute, thinking of her with a beau.
We
moved the furniture into the center of the room and covered it with drop
cloths. First we had to strip the walls of the green paisley wallpaper. Jack
brought a radio from his bedroom and tuned it to the clearest station while I
filled a bucket with water. I dunked a sponge into the water, then wiped down a
small section of paper right by a seam. With a putty knife, I worked a seam
loose and tugged until a chunk of damp paper peeled away.
“That’s
all there is to it, then?” Jack asked, grabbing the other sponge.
Prying
a corner loose at the chair rail, I pulled until the strip grew wider, crawling
toward the ceiling like a serpent. “We’ll have to go as high as we can reach,
and then go back around with the ladder to moisten the section above.”
He
carefully worked a seam open and tugged the paper. A chunk no bigger than his
hand came off. He frowned and slid the putty knife under the damp paper to pry
it loose again. “This is tricky.”
“Here,”
I said, wiping the sponge over another section. “Give it more water and pull
slowly, at an angle.”
He
watched as I repeated the steps, then tried again.
“Just
don’t pull so hard the plaster comes off,” I said. “Water is your friend.”
He
smiled, loosening another corner. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
We
pulled the paper off in broad chunks and let it fall around our feet like shed
leaves. It felt strange doing this in Vergie’s house. All my other flip houses
were just studs, walls and floorboards. But here, it felt like I was stripping
away the last pieces of Vergie.
Jack
hummed along with the radio, occasionally singing along in French. I loved those
old zydeco tunes and could always tell the ones that were all about love—even
if I couldn’t make out the words.
The
steady tearing of paper from plaster began to blend with the music. It was a
rough sound, like fingers on a washboard. We’d started on
For
example: Vergie’s front porch had three floorboards that were obviously new. If
I repainted the entire porch floor, then the peeling banisters would look even
worse, the blue exterior would seem more faded, and the front door would look
dingy. Before long I’d be painting the entire exterior because of a few
floorboards.
My
solution: Paint those new boards a matching color, then do a wash on the whole
porch to blend it together. Scuff it up a bit to make it look “farmhouse chic,”
and it would go with the rest of the exterior. Historic farmhouses were
supposed to have scuffs and scratches—but they needed to look like those flaws
had been protected like memories while the structure held its integrity. That
way, the flaws were called “character” and not “disrepair.”
My
way took more creativity than your average contractor had. Others couldn’t be
trusted with those details.
We
started with the downstairs study. My favorite part of the room was the
floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with Vergie’s books—travel guides, Creole
cookbooks, and a slew of paperback westerns and romances. I pulled a book off
the shelf and wondered if Jack had ever peeked inside one.
Those
built-in shelves meant less wall space to deal with. A blessing, because the
peeling wallpaper had to go. I had chosen a neutral buttercream that wouldn’t
make the ceiling look dingy and would be a nice complement to the dark wood of
the bookcases and trim. The floral patterned sofa and green wingback chair had
enough vintage appeal. They would stay.
“Did
you ever meet the friend Vergie was living with?” I asked.
“Yeah,
George I think was his name. Sweet old guy. Worked over at the jazz museum in
New Orleans.”
“Vergie
moved in with a man?”
Jack
shrugged. “They’d been together a long time.”
I’d
always assumed she was living here alone, because she was alone when I visited
in the summers. It had never occurred to me that she could have had a
boyfriend.
It
made me happy for a minute, thinking of her with a beau.
We
moved the furniture into the center of the room and covered it with drop
cloths. First we had to strip the walls of the green paisley wallpaper. Jack
brought a radio from his bedroom and tuned it to the clearest station while I
filled a bucket with water. I dunked a sponge into the water, then wiped down a
small section of paper right by a seam. With a putty knife, I worked a seam
loose and tugged until a chunk of damp paper peeled away.
“That’s
all there is to it, then?” Jack asked, grabbing the other sponge.
Prying
a corner loose at the chair rail, I pulled until the strip grew wider, crawling
toward the ceiling like a serpent. “We’ll have to go as high as we can reach,
and then go back around with the ladder to moisten the section above.”
He
carefully worked a seam open and tugged the paper. A chunk no bigger than his
hand came off. He frowned and slid the putty knife under the damp paper to pry
it loose again. “This is tricky.”
“Here,”
I said, wiping the sponge over another section. “Give it more water and pull
slowly, at an angle.”
He
watched as I repeated the steps, then tried again.
“Just
don’t pull so hard the plaster comes off,” I said. “Water is your friend.”
He
smiled, loosening another corner. “I’ll try to be gentle.”
We
pulled the paper off in broad chunks and let it fall around our feet like shed
leaves. It felt strange doing this in Vergie’s house. All my other flip houses
were just studs, walls and floorboards. But here, it felt like I was stripping
away the last pieces of Vergie.
Jack
hummed along with the radio, occasionally singing along in French. I loved those
old zydeco tunes and could always tell the ones that were all about love—even
if I couldn’t make out the words.
The
steady tearing of paper from plaster began to blend with the music. It was a
rough sound, like fingers on a washboard. We’d started on
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