During my career as a Realtor, owners proudly showed me the improvements that they’d made. “We did everything ourselves. Working together was such fun!” I smiled because I knew what probably happened during their fix-up experiences.
As I’ve written before, I am a klutz. Bill, on the other hand is a precise, persnickety and competent handyman/decorator. After we knocked down the plaster ceiling in our old house, he brought home 4 x 8 sheets of plasterboard with which to replace it. Plasterboard is limber, heavy and fragile. “Now we must be very careful not to crack it or knock the corners off, Dear,” he said in his most patient, husbandly voice. “Gotcha!” Off we went from the front porch to the kitchen. “Gosh, this stuff’s heavy,” I said as I dropped my end. “You just knocked off a corner,” Bill said.
I asked how we were going to get the sheets of plasterboard up to the nine-foot-tall ceiling. “Don’t you think we need help?” “Don’t worry. I have a plan.” He brought in a big “T” that he’d nailed together out of two-by-fours. He set up the stepladder and announced the plan: “I’ll climb the ladder with one end of a sheet of plasterboard and hold it against the ceiling while you hoist the other end up with the “T” and brace it, and I’ll nail it in place.” “Sounds simple enough.”
He went up the ladder. “Now!” he yelled. “Get the “T” under your end! Hurry!” It was impossible to hurry with that heavy “T” in the small kitchen. “Hurry!” he moaned. “I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying.” Finally I got the “T” in place. He shrieked, “Get it straight!!” It wobbled.
Husband, plasterboard and “T” made a rapid descent. Leaning against the wall, Bill said very quietly, “It was my intent that you lift your end and brace it, rather than knocking me off the ladder with my cross.”
We started over: “Hurry!” “I can’t!” “You have to!” “I can’t!” “Don’t let it slip!” Resignedly, “Let’s start over.” Finally I said, “I’m not strong enough to do this.” (A phrase that I’m still using to this day.) “Let me be the beast of burden and go up the ladder.”
Weak-kneed, I got halfway up the ladder. “Are you O.K., hon?” “Don’t talk to me — just hurry!” I yelled. At last the board was in place and anchored. Bill came up the ladder behind me and nailed it. The second sheet was easier. I stumbled up the ladder with the third sheet that had one inch cut off of it to fit since it butted against the wall Bill braced his end while I balanced mine against the ceiling with my head since my arms were as limp as spaghetti. It overlapped the preceding board.
I said, “It doesn’t fit.” “Push it over.” I pushed. “No good.” “It has to fit!” he roared. I yelled, “It doesn’t. You must have cut it wrong.” He joined me on the ladder. “Sigh . . . You’re right; it’s a quarter of an inch too wide at this end. The wall is crooked.” We learned that there is no such thing as a straight line in an old house that has leaned and shifted with the passage of time.
From that point on, every sheet had to be taken up, marked, taken back down and trimmed before being installed. Our hair and clothing were soaked with perspiration from the 95-degree heat. We learned firsthand the meaning of “sweat equity.”
During our torment, neighbor Linda arrived with a pitcher of lemonade. “I thought you guys could use this right about now.” I was grateful, but suspected that she had come to gloat secretly about my agony as I’d done when she was helping her husband, a professional carpet installer, lay a new kitchen floor. “Darn it, Linda! You’ve tracked adhesive onto the new tiles!”
More to come. wclarke@comcast.net