Painting lessons

The best house painter in my family is probably my mother; she has transformed many Plain-Jane white walls into neat blocks of color.

The bleached bone-white walls in the living room and den in our old house in Littleton became pale ocean-blue and deep cranberry-red. She took a yellowed mural in a bathroom and covered it with a bold turquoise. It didn't hit me until much, much later that my mother executed these transformations flawlessly. The lines were straight and clean. There were no messy swipes of colors where they were not permitted. Since my mother made painting look easy, I figured it was easy. I was wrong.

I learned the truth about painting the hard way. My first apartment was one-half of a duplex that seemed to be stooped and slumped in its old age. It had popcorn ceilings and a bathroom that made you shudder if you happened to look in its corners. One of the living room windows was cracked and the kitchen featured a dinged-up porcelain sink. A musty smell greeted me when I first walked through the door. It was in dire of need of opened windows and, I decided when I woke up after my first night in the place, a new coat of paint.

While my mother went through thick stacks of paint swatches and several small tubs of paint samples to select the right color for each room, I merely marched into the local hardware store, took one look at the mosaic of colored paper squares, and pointed my finger at the winning color.

I left carrying metal cans filled with some bold colors. I ordered paint that was Pepto-Bismol pink, key lime green, baby powder -blue and sunshine yellow. You pretty much had to wear sunglasses when you entered the place. I figured bright colors would distract people from noticing the many, many flaws of place. Unfortunately, the paint also drew attention to my many, many painting mistakes. I tried to apply long strips of blue masking tape to the ceiling but it only seemed to crumble or simply slip away from the rough surface. I never even thought to remove the switch plates. And even though I remembered to buy a plastic tarp for the floor, beads of paint still made their way onto the carpet.

I discovered there are many, many variables to consider when it comes to painting and I was too lazy or too impatient to pay attention to any of them. Besides, I didn't own the place so what did it matter to me?

Now that I do owe my home, it matters a great deal. So when I decided to paint the wall around my fireplace, I was determined to do it right. Everything got outlined in blue painter's tape. I encircled the fireplace with a canvas tarp. I was determined to paint within the lines and ignore any instincts to imitate Jackson Pollack. When all the white had disappeared and the blue tape was peeled away, I felt pride looking at my handiwork. It looks like a job my mother could have done.

The fireplace with its makeover.