There’s a candle flickering on my left. On my right, Elon Musk, with the tips of prayer hands at his chin, stares from the cover of his life story. The dregs of winter loom sunless and drab through the window in front of my desk.
Internet is sketchy on days like this. But I can breathe again.
The past three weeks have been a race to get my loft space guest-ready. That meant mudding, taping, sanding, and painting non-stop to hit the January 25th deadline of the lunchtime arrival of Jessa and Dan.
A paper and pen list with each task and its to-be-completed date posted on my refrigerator in plain sight was my archaic method for achieving an on-time finish; that and the vision in my head. I could see it, the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. The Tiffany-type lamp glowing. A cozy seating area by the flickering (electric) fireplace, and the new rug.
It would be a push. I knew that. But when I want something badly enough, Driven is my middle name.
Gwen helped the first day.
She placed the mesh tape over all the joints between the sheets of drywall. Then, she went home. For the next few days, I slathered joint compound (mud) over the tape, wielding a smoothing tool with a twelve-inch blade, determined to have learned from my ignorant first attempts at mudding a year ago.
The ceiling of the loft slopes from seven feet at the highest point, down to about three feet ten inches at the outside wall. For some of the work I squatted and ducked. For some, I stood. And for about one-third of it, I needed a ladder. Then, just to be sure I got a full calisthenic workout, every few minutes I bent to set down the mud and pick up the screw gun.
There’s a sweet spot for sheetrock screws that requires just the right amount of pressure so they come to rest slightly below the surface of the drywall. When done well, the mud smoothes over them and they completely disappear. Many of them needed an extra zap to sink them to the proper depth. I was meticulous. I wanted to get as close to perfection as an amateur possibly could,
My energy held out for about three hours every morning. Then, right shoulder, elbow, and wrist aching, I’d stop for lunch and rest. Rarely did I have what it took to go back to it the same day. To keep going, I counseled myself, Just a little longer, Sherry. Then you won’t have to do this part again tomorrow. Or I bargained, One more hour now and you can quit early tomorrow.
When I finally crossed mudding off the list, I thought the worst was over. How soon we forget. Sanding created woes of its own. Smoothing the walls wasn’t bad, but the ceiling was another story. Powdery dust fell into my eyes. I tried goggles. In seconds, they were coated and I could see nothing. Every wrinkle in my face was a ghostly line of white. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints that sustained the brutal workout of mudding, were now challenged in new ways. Oh! And did I mention my neck? All that cranking my head back to look upward as dust mixed with tears and mud oozed out of my eyes, meant a nightly dose of ibuprofen to ease the pain and let me sleep.
Then morning would come again!
When sanding was complete, every surface in my house sported a layer of grit. I knew there was no point in cleaning until I’d wiped down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the loft, and that had to happen before I could paint.
Neighbor Bear told me to check in with him, suggesting that he might have some things I could use. I left the dust and strolled over to his house. He moved into his unfinished residence on September 30th and was still unpacking boxes. In the process he’d come across paint (about 90 gallons of various colors) and painting supplies. He sent me home with rollers, brushes, trays, and eight gallons of random satin, gloss, and eggshell. There were various shades of white, a cream, two browns, and something called amber glow which turned out to be blaze orange. It was the 22nd. I had three days left.
As soon as I got back to the house, I wiped down the walls and ceiling of the loft and entryway with damp cloths. Then mopped the floor. Puffy little clouds no longer accompanied each footstep. Once that was done, I tackled the main living area, vacuumed the upholstery and the rug, dusted the top, sides, and insides of the furniture, and scrubbed the floor. I’d forgotten what clean felt like.
I should have stopped to rest, but I was running out of time. I knew the next day meant a run to town to get groceries, a 70-mile round trip, and prepping meals for my guests. So, I broke open the first can of white and began. I rolled the walls, then up and down the ladder for the ceiling, on hands and knees with the paintbrush for the plywood floor in the entryway, and with the roller again to cover the rough chipboard floor in the loft.
Three things kept me psyched up enough to face each grueling day:
- Crossing completed tasks off the list
- Visualizing the finished project
- Wanting to please my guests
On the 24th, Gwen brought over their queen-size air bed, a magnificent thing that inflates itself. By evening, the loft was a charming guestroom. I messaged Jessa: I’m ready for you tomorrow! Within moments, she answered: Mom! Were coming on the 28th, not tomorrow!
I don’t know how our wires got crossed. I looked back in my messages and nowhere did I find any dates at all. But what a gift, three whole days to rest! The psychological circus that had kept me going for the preceeding weeks, quietly rolled out of town.
When they arrived twenty minutes early on the 28th, homemade Loaded Vegetable and Barley Soup was simmering on the stove. Creamy butter sat ready to be slathered on Mexican bolillos, and Gwen’s cranberry-apple galette waited in the wings for dessert. Tucked in the fridge for the evening meal, four potatoes lay scrubbed and ready for baking, and a side of peas. There were sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella with bay leaves for Caprese salad. A whole chicken stuffed with lemons and cloves of garlic, would become Lemon Garlic Chicken done on the rotisserie in the air fryer.
Between lunch and happy hour, we traipsed next door to Gwens to bake lefse. The equipment was set up and ready. Gwen gave a quick tutorial, and the rolling began. It was Jessa’s special request to revisit that ancestral ritual from her childhood and no wonder. She’s a pro! She rolled each round to a perfect transluscent circle, ‘like Grandpa used to do,’ she said. Somehow, Dan’s Scandinavian background didn’t give him the same leg-up. The dough stuck to his rolling pin, and when he did manage to get one ready for the griddle, it resembled the shape of a turnip, or Africa. Fortunately, he could laugh along with us, and his tasted just as good as the perfectly formed ones.
It was a wonderful visit, but the joy of having them here reached its apex when they hugged me goodnight and disappeared into their private loft room with the fireplace flickering on the freshly painted and almost perfectly smooth walls and ceiling.
writing for self-discovery 
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