My father had some very good qualities, but when it came to renovating the house in a timely manner, he seemed to have several things going against him. For instance, as a policeman, he worked shift work. Shift work can lead to sleep deprivation, which is especially trying when one is trying to sleep off-hours with dogs, cats, birds, and kids running around the house. In his job, he often dealt with some energy-draining situations. Let’s face it, being a policeman in some cities does not bring one into contact with the finest folks in town. He also tried to get as many “union jobs” as possible to scoop up the extra pay. Union jobs were basically where the police officers could be hired as security for companies. For instance, the local McDonald’s franchise liked to keep spaces open in their parking lots for active customers, which could be difficult on Friday nights with teenagers hanging out. So, they would hire off-duty police officers to walk the lots and keep the kids moving. Poor sleep habits, lots of overtime, and dealing with the dregs of society and teenagers (but I repeat myself) did not make Dad the most energetic guy when he was at home. He wasn’t champing at the bit to keep the house in shape or renovated.

My mother was not someone who believed in nagging. Nagging takes more energy than just doing something for oneself, if one actually has the skills to do it. But my mother really did not have the skills to renovate a room well, but after asking nicely a few times, she just got tired of waiting.

I don’t remember the exact year, although I would guess we had been in the house for at least ten years. When we moved into the house, my eldest brother was seven; my middle brother was four or five, and I was three. My mother decided she wanted the bathroom renovated. It had been an ugly pink color, and had seen hard wear with five people, especially three growing boys. It at least needed a good coat of paint. Updating the fixtures would be good, too, since the tub enamel was chipped and for God’s sake, they were all pink! It also had a flooring of patterned tile that had various shades of small pink and white tiles inlaid where many of the small tiles had come loose and been lost over years of abuse.

I came home from high school one day to find my mother and the lady next door in the bathroom. They had put down a dark blue shag carpet over the old tile, without pulling the old tile up or installing padding. They were painting the room blue. This was not done in a professional manner. There was tile up the wall from the tub, for instance. Unlike the floor tile, it was a consistent white with a black edge border frame. At least, it had been when I had gone to school. When I returned home from school, it was a uniform light blue in color, the same as the walls.

My mother and Mrs. Next Door were not capable of changing out the fixtures, so this sea of blue was still accentuated with a pink tub, pink sink, and pink toilet. My mother had, however, bought a toilet tank and seat cover to match the carpet they had “installed.”

My father woke up from sleeping to get ready for work that evening. He got up, probably smelling the drying paint fumes, and traced the smell down the hall to the bathroom. Now, I mentioned that my father had some very good qualities, but he also had some not-so-great qualities. The same sleep deprivation factors that led to his not being energetic for renovation projects also led to his having a rather short fuse. He was also an only child who was terribly pampered and spoiled by his mother, meaning he lacked in some areas of character development until he was in his fifties or sixties. No two-year-old or modern college student or professor could out-tantrum my father. He had also been in the army and taught how to shout by drill sergeants. Generally, these were not a good combination of traits when something went wrong or did not go his way.

So, there my father was, staring into the bathroom. My mother came down the hall to stand beside him.

Instead of screaming, surprisingly, he asked a question, “What happened here?”

“I have asked several times for the floor to be fixed and the room to be painted. You do not seem to have the time to do it, so Nancy and I did it.”

My father nodded, showing amazing restraint, “That probably is not the right type of paint for the window trim and, uh, why did you paint the tile?”

“We did the best we knew how,” my mother said and stepped around him to continue down the hall.

Again, my father merely nodded. He went into the bathroom and got ready for work.

For a few years, until my father did get the time and energy to renovate it properly, that was our lavatory: a sea of blue and pink. The paint did not hold very well to the tile Mother had painted, as one would expect, so it slowly peeled away to reveal the old white and black pattern. Dad also learned that when Mother said she wanted something done, that it would get done, for good or ill.

Do y’all have any stories like this? Have you been involved in renovations gone wrong?