Uncle Remus And the Beauty Spot!

With my wife due to return in less than 48 hours, I decided I had time to do one more small project in our remodeling plan. I decided that it would be a good time to rip out the roughly 36 square feet of plywood on her bathroom floor. I had already removed two layers of carpet and one of linoleum and about a 3 by 3 foot square of plywood that had deteriorated under its overcoat. Beneath that was a layer of 8-inch square green asphalt tile. I thought that over the short interval before we refinished the floor that the asphalt tile would be much easier to walk on than the plywood. There would absolutely be no risk of splinters. The removal process took a little less than two hours as I took extra care to avoid any damage to the mint green wall tile. The previous owner had run the plywood all the way to the studs and had then placed the wall tile on top of it. So it was impossible to use a large pry bar and simply go into demolition mode. No, this was going to take a little more time than that. I had also forgotten to factor in his penchant for over-using nails throughout the house. What was essentially one full-size sheet of plywood with a few filler pieces here and there was anchored with over a hundred nails.

I sat back and surveyed my handiwork. What I saw looked like tornado wreckage. The floor was littered with hundreds of small pieces of three-ply plywood and thousands of small splinters. That would never do. After all it was my intent to provide her with a splinter free floor when she returned. I grabbed my gloves and a dustpan and went to work to sweep up all the debris. I then got on my hands and knees to feel for any nail heads sticking up from the floor. I know what you are thinking. But it was not like that at all. I ran a dustpan across the tile to locate any metal protrusions that I might have missed in my visual surveillance. And I did find four that I had somehow overlooked. The floor was nice and smooth and needed a good washing, but that could wait until tomorrow.

Then the phone rang. It was my wife and she asked me what I had done today. I told her about ripping out the plywood. She then asked what was beneath the green asphalt tile. I told her that I did not have a clue. When she hung up, I too was curious. I remembered that song from yesterday, “What’s behind the green door?’ I decided to find out. I removed a piece of tile at the doorway entrance. Naturally, the tile separated from its backing and all I saw was the ragged, gray lining of the tile. I carefully removed that and what I saw was what I had hoped for—hardwood flooring. I could not tell anything about the finish so I used a little Pine Sol and presto it cleaned right up and looked even more beautiful than before. I had to see more. I ploughed a furrow down the middle and then removed four of the eight-inch square tiles directly in the center of her vanity. That was a big mistake. The four tiles had leaked asphalt or so it seemed, unless the hardware guy had used some surplus asphalt to level out the tile. I had not intended to clean down to the hardwood, but now I had no choice. I was suddenly haunted by thoughts of Uncle Remus and the Tar Baby. And if you thought my wife was going to be upset by being glued to the kitchen floor, then you should know she was not going to be the least bit happy about having her feet tarred. Before this matter ran its course I was likely to be tarred and feathered.

But what was I to do? Luckily the tar seemed to be confined to the four tiles. If I had used my better judgment I simply would have replaced the four tiles and maybe nailed them back down. But no! I had a brilliant idea. I remembered that we had some bug and tar removal somewhere around the house. Alas, I searched in vain. I then asked myself what was most likely in the tar and bug product. For some strange reason I decided that Greased Lightning was a reasonable facsimile. I applied a little of that stuff to an inconspicuous area and presto everything came clean. I then applied a liberal amount to our magic square area and the cardboard turned to mush and came clean only the asphalt refused to cooperate. (Have you ever noticed that what works in an inconspicuous area never works the same in a conspicuous one?) I then trotted out other super duper cleaners and finally after two hours of hard labor I had cleaned down to about two thick spots of tar or asphalt or whatever it was. I looked at the floor and what I saw was not an image of Christ or the Virgin Mary, but two beauty spots. Like it or not my wife was now stuck with her own private beauty spot—32 square inches. And me? I am going to get some beauty sleep. It just might be the only good night sleep I have in a long time.