Floored

By Wendy Hamilton

Ian and I recently (sort of accidentally) bought a house in Griffith Australia. How it happened is a story for another time. What is important, is it was built in the sixties and, therefore, probably had a timber floor. Ian and I LOVE timber floors.

“I keep the rugs in the entrance to protect the carpet,” said the owner as we viewed the house. She was a lovely lady who went to the church we attend. “I had it steam cleaned. Quality wool, forty years old and still good.”

When she turned her back, I put on my glasses and bending down, peered closely at the fraying edge of the carpet by the ranch slider. The slither of floor looked like timber to me. I lifted the carpet gently and peeped under the tiny crack. It looked like boards underneath. Further investigations in the basement confirmed the underneath of the entrance floor (at least) was wooden.

During the six weeks we waited to take possession, Ian and I fantasied over the floor. In the absolute best scenario, we would find the floor unblemished and already polished; nothing to do. In the worst scenario, I would have to spend six months sanding it with a small hand-sander.

“No, that is not the worst possibility,” said Ian gloomily. “Anything could be under there. The middle of each floor could have a huge chunk of chipboard stuck in it to replace rotten timber.”

“You’re right!”

What a horrible idea. It was a lucky dip. Would we get a prize or a bobby trap?

  A day before we took possession of the house Ian took me aside.

“Now Wend, I want you to PROMISE me you will not start ripping up the carpet within the first twenty minutes.”

“I will NOT promise.” There was feisty heat to my tone. “And what’s more, the odds are a hundred to one that YOU will look under the carpet five minutes after we unlock the door!”

If I had been a betting woman I would have won a lot of money.

We gained possession at 4:45pm on Thursday, and at 4:50 Thursday we started investigating. The first place we looked was an upstairs bedroom. Together we peeled back the carpet and WOW! Underneath was polished timber. The bits that were not covered by sticky portions of disintegrating underfelt, glowed with golden warmth. I was ecstatic and Ian was pleased.

“Lay it back down, Wend,” he said stoically. “The house is livable. We only have three days to shift our stuff and clean the flat. We don’t have time to start renovating.”

Once again, he was right. Nevertheless, I did as he said with reluctance. Only curiosity over the rest of the house stopped me from having a lively debate with him. To our joy it appeared that the master bedroom also had a polished floor, and the other bedrooms, and the entrance. We couldn’t see the lounge or the staircase floor because the carpet was too firmly fixed down.

“But the chances are, they are also polished,” I said.

“I’ll get my wrecking bar so we can have a look,” said Ian, going out to his truck.

I was pleased. Ian loved his wrecking bar. I knew from experience that once the lust for demolishing washed over him there would be no stopping him. Leaving him to it, I whipped upstairs and hauled back the carpet of every room as far as I could. Before long I heard the sounds of bangs, and thumps, and the screeching of wrenched nails. The noises started cautiously and slowly, but rapidly got louder more frenzied as primitive impulses in my husband were unleashed. When I heard the shout of victory and the glorious tidings that he had found more polished flooring, I knew it was time to strike.

“Come and see what I’ve done,” I called. He came up, two stairs at a time, and gazed admiringly at my handiwork. “It will never be easier to lift all the carpet than now,” I said persuasively. “The house is empty and the floor is lovely.”

I could see his resolve was wavering, so I added extra incentive. Pointing to the strips of spikey carpet tacks running around the perimeter of the room I said:

“It wouldn’t take long for you to rip up all that stuff.”

Ka-pow! In a special romantic moment, we were instantly united heart and soul as we wallowed in the glorious job before us. Shared memories of doing up our first house in our youth flooded back, as together we hauled up the carpet. When we had a mountain of the bulky stuff piled in the corner of each room our euphoria dimmed a little. It was unwieldly and weighed a ton. I was studying on the best way to get it down the staircase, when my clever husband came up with a magnificent plan.

“Heave it over the balcony, Wend.”

Euphoria whizzed back.

Working in synchronized unison we dragged it out to the patio and (with eyes popping) hoisted it over the balcony railings, where it fell two stories and landed with a satisfying whump on the driveway below.

By ten-o-clock that evening the top story of the house was bare floorboards, and by 9:30 the next morning we had skinned the bottom floor. The carpet sat like a huge mound of lumpy oatmeal on the driveway and the floor bristled with tacks and staples like a mangy hedgehog.

 I was happy because I didn’t have to spend six months sanding the floor, and Ian was happy because he needed a whole family of different sized wrecking bars to remove the tacks.

Don’t give me the canned romance of Halmark movies; the high spots of marriage are not flowers, Valentine cards, or eating out, but shared values and projects.  For Ian and me, life doesn’t get better than an outing to Home Depo followed by many companionable evenings pulling up carpet tacks.