12. Stairway to Heaven Via Hell

Thank the Lord for June. The month of May knocked the wind out of us, and we were ready to reap the benefits of our blood, sweat, and tears. Obviously there were some things we simply couldn’t change or fix — like shattered armoires — which were pieced out for DIY projects. Between spindles, frames, and hardware, we had plenty of antique shards that customers could up-cycle.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on one’s perspective) there were countless things we could fix. Our plan was to move full steam ahead on that first day of June, the same day that Benjamin’s four-month break commenced.

As a graphic designer at Intuit (TurboTax), his contract position was based around tax season. For five consecutive years, upper management had offered him a full-time position, something he declined for the simple fact we needed those four-months to travel, grow, build, and connect. Now, those four months would be earmarked for flat out “build.”

“There were no Band-Aids or patchwork here, but rather a slow, peeling away of layers that blanketed a rich heritage that we longed to unveil to reawaken the glory days.”

At the Betty Crocker Estate however, “build” was not to be confused with “renovate.” What we were undertaking was a mass restoration. There were no Band-Aids or patchwork here, but rather a slow, peeling away of layers that blanketed a rich heritage that we longed to unveil to reawaken the glory days.

During those first two months, we aired out the property by opening nearly every window and door in the house. Day-by-day we could almost feel the atmosphere changing. The only window that remained sealed was located in the stairwell leading to the master bedroom. It had yet to be opened for the simple fact we needed an extension ladder to reach it from the outside.

But now the time had come to open that last window. It was pretty much a necessity from the moment Benjamin announced we’d be pulling up the stinky carpet.

Covered in mystery stains and trapped odors, the carpet runner covered the long narrow staircase where it had been trampled for decades. If there’s one thing Benjamin loathes in interior design, it’s carpet.

I had first discovered that loathing back in 2009 while traveling across The Yucatan for a Fodor’s Travel work assignment. Two weeks later, I returned to a carpet-less home. In its place were some of the most stunning hardwood floors I had ever seen, and a masterpiece that landed our Carlsbad house in top design blogs. It was truly a labor of love, and one that I certainly appreciated since it instantly cured a lifetime of allergies.

From Carlsbad to Vista, we became hardwood-floor advocates, taking great pride in sanitary surfaces with plenty of character expressed in grooves, knots, and marbled woods.  

The fact that the Betty Crocker Estate had carpet, made us want to instantly peel it away and allow the house to breathe. For two straight months we had been talking about removing that carpet, but since we didn’t know how extensive the project would be, we waited until Benjamin’s break from Intuit.

In the meantime, we had focused on other tasks like fixing appliances, cleaning the barn, opening (sealed) windows, fighting rats, and pulling down shades and curtains. But today was June 1st, carpet day, the beginning of an arduous journey neither of us could have ever predicted.

“With great anticipation—and hope—Benjamin pulled back the first tread of carpet, unveiling a lovely white plank floor.”

With great anticipation—and hope—Benjamin pulled back the first tread of carpet, unveiling a lovely white plank floor. We adored all-white plank floors, and had even boldly painted our hardwood floors white at our previous home in Vista.

But these ones in the Betty Crocker Estate needed some affection, and some elbow grease, and perhaps a fresh coat of paint to make them shine. It was certainly doable. We both beamed with every yank of the carpet, as Benjamin pulled it away from three steps, clear across the landing, past the sealed window, and all the way to the first step on the long staircase  . . . . “Oh no,” Benjamin stopped in his tracks. “Please no, no, no, no.”

I looked at our fate, as he unveiled one step after another. We were like farmers who had shucked our first harvest to find nothing but rotten corn.

“What’s that brown casing over the stairs,” I asked. “Is that old paint?”

Benjamin knew exactly what it was, tapping the surface in disgust. “This my love, is rock-hard linoleum that’s been covered with glue, and then buried under nasty carpet.”

Now didn’t seem like a good time to suggest perhaps a new carpet runner. Nope, my man was on a mission. Benjamin was not one to patch up the past or layer on top of mistakes. He did things the right way, by hand, even if it took him twice as long. He revived the forgotten with a heart that commanded, “rise up.”

But these poor stairs had the upper hand on my brave warrior, who was now tugging at the rest of the runner with such force, that it seemed the two were literally fighting. I stood back, mouth agape as Benjamin cursed the carpet, one bullying seize at a time.

Part of me wanted to cheer him on ringside, throwing air punches in spousal encouragement and carpet mutiny. But instead, I just sneezed uncontrollably as dust from years past crept into my nasal cavity.

“We really need to open that last window,” I sniffled.

Without responding, Benjamin kicked the deceased carpet roll as it hit that bottom step, and then lugged it out the front door and onto our lawn like a dead body for all to see. My carpet gangster meant serious business. No doubt he would strong-arm those steps over the next few days . . . or better yet, the next two weeks.  

From sunrise to sunset, Benjamin rigorously chipped away at those concrete-hard layers by hand. Any electric sander would have dispersed asbestos dust throughout the house, turning our home into a toxic chamber. What he thought would take a few days took him nearly two weeks after discovering not one, but two layers of linoleum.

My heart broke for the guy. From day one, his 4-month project schedule was already wrecked. Each morning he would wake up, down a cup of coffee, and head back to the staircase, chipping away endlessly with beads of sweat rolling down his face. I would try to encourage him, literally one step at a time with fruitless phrases like, “Half way there! Just six more steps to go!”

As I typed away on work projects, I would hear him yell from the stairwell, “This is our stairway to heaven via hell” and “This is how I imagine purgatory would be.”

“It seemed that on occasion, Betty Crocker would pat him on the shoulder in empathy, and whisper “thank you” in gentle gratitude.”

Benjamin never gave up despite the effort, and the sad reality that few would know his sacrifice. It seemed that on occasion, Betty Crocker would pat him on the shoulder in empathy, and whisper “thank you” in gentle gratitude.

In those quicksilver moments that Benjamin nearly gave up, he would discover a gift that kept him going. Just steps from completion, he found a sweet surprise on stair number three. There beneath the layers of aged glue was a perfect cut out in the wood with two discrete finger holes.

Together, we sat on those dirty steps in great anticipation as Benjamin opened the secret drawer.

“Let there be gold,” I begged no one in particular.

Instead, the secret drawer was filled with rats’ nests, dried acorns, and of course rat poop. I sighed in discouragement. “Well, at least the secret drawer is kind of cool.”

I suggested we draw a question mark on that single step as a tribute to the treasures the house held deep within, even if those “treasures” were rat poop at this point in our lives. Benjamin thought the idea was unique, and did in fact add a question mark when the time came to paint the staircase. . . .yet another task that took longer than expected.

Due to the dark brown color that remained beneath the glue, it took Benjamin three coats of white paint and a coat of polyurethane to cover the tint. Days would pass and the brown would magically reappear through the white flooring.

Back to the stairs he went, laying down another coat of paint and another coat of varnish, cursing louder with each attempt. This went on three more times. Somehow he didn’t crack in the process. Nope, he saved the cracking for the walls.

Turns out the walls in the stairwell had not one, but two layers of wallpaper plus three layers of paint, and each layer had to be removed by hand. There he was, committed to 12 hours a day in that stairwell, reaching what he believed to be the last layer of original paint in a muted yellow.

In between peeling paint, he patched holes and covered cracks in the walls. And that’s when it came to him.

“Come quickly,” he yelled. “You’ve got to see this!”

I jumped up from my computer to find Benjamin wiping circles of citrus paint remover into the yellow paint. With each wipe of the cloth, there appeared a color neither of us expected.

“Look,” he said. “It’s the original Venetian plaster buried beneath the paint.”

There it was, a deep shade of emerald as rich as the jewel itself. We both knew then and there, that was how we’d showcase the wall, cracks and all, with its original grandeur and splendor winking at all those who would pass.

“What made you think to do that?” I asked Benjamin.

 He looked at me as if I too should know the answer. “Betty told me to do it.”

Next story on "Channeling Betty" coming soon.