I recall a time years ago when we tried to do a little home improvement project in the parsonage where we lived for a few years: removing wallpaper and repainting the walls in the room where I wrote my dissertation, although "room" is perhaps not the right word to describe a space barely wider than a hallway, its walls interrupted with five doors and two windows. It was impossible to furnish a room so wonky, so I put my computer desk in there and wrote diligently, promising myself that my reward for completing the dissertation would be tearing down that horrible wallpaper.
I think about that wallpaper every time I teach Charlotte Perkins Gilman's story "The Yellow Wall-paper," where the offending decor is described as
One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate and provoke study, and when you follow the lame uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide--plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard of contradictions....The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sun light. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others.
I recognize that wallpaper! The wallpaper that surrounded me while I wrote my dissertation surely merited charges of aesthetic harassment, but I never figured out whom to sue. I gritted my teeth and lived with that wallpaper for more than a year, and instead of going mad like the woman in Gilman's story, I got even. As soon as the dissertation was done, I started tearing down that malignant wallpaper.
Big mistake.
The wallpaper didn't come down easily, and we soon learned that it had been hiding a multitude of sins: insect infestations, wall cracks, a round hole in the wall large enough for a wood stove's chimney, and a piece of plywood loosely covering an opening for yet another door. All those surprises required work that we weren't equipped or inclined to do--especially in a house that wasn't even ours.
Lately I've been thinking about that little home improvement project that got too big to handle, as we are currently in the midst of a major home improvement project that seems to be going quite well (knock wood). True, we've reached an awkward stage: the guest bathroom has no toilet (yet) while the master bathroom is occupied by a worker diligently removing the tub. Kind of awkward to elbow a worker out of the way every time one needs to use the bathroom, and also he's bound to have turned off the water in there, which is why I'm staying away from the house and working on campus all day.
We knew this kind of thing might happen, but the good news is that the master bathroom is a small job--remove tub and tub surround, install accessible shower stall and hardware--and it should be done today or tomorrow, as long as the worker doesn't discover anything surprising while removing the old tub.
The guest bathroom doesn't even look like the same space. So far they've taken it down to the studs, removed all traces of dark gray and purple (mauve?), and installed the new tub and drywall; today they start mudding the drywall before they can install the toilet, sink, hardware, and flooring. That formerly dim, cramped room already looks so bright and cheery that I get happy every time I walk by.
I hesitate to say this out loud lest I jinx the process, but so far everything has gone entirely according to plan. No surprises, no problems, no extra charges, and the contractor and his crew have been a real pleasure to work with. I feel a calm confidence in their ability to get it done on time and within budget.
But I can't let myself get too excited. Who knows what might pop up before it's all done? Maybe they'll pull out the tub and find Jimmy Hoffa buried underneath. Whatever happens, I've got to be grateful for two things: against all odds, we have sufficient resources to meet the challenge--and we don't have to do any of the work ourselves.
New bath in the guest bathroom!
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