the Floor

Way back in 1993, when Kendell and I were building our house, one of the easiest decisions we made was the kind of kitchen floor we wanted: wood. We knew it would be one of the most expensive things we did, and we had to scrape some mostly-empty money barrels to make it happen, but we were determined.

Since the day we moved in (December 18, 1993) I've loved my wood floor. It's easy to clean, plus it's easy to not clean (meaning, if I neglected it for a few weeks, it didn't look all that awful). The only thing that didn't make me happy was the damage inflicted by the plumbers, who installed our kitchen faucet wrong. Water leaked right in front of the sink in a roughly 4x4 foot puddle, but they ensured us that all would be fine. A couple of fairly naive twenty-somethings (I was only 21!), we believed them. Not a month later, the wood that had been under the puddle warped, but but then it was too late to make the plumbers fix it, since we'd already closed on the house.

I put a rug down on the warpyness and lived with it.

So we've put off refinishing our wood floor for nearly 18 years. We knew we wouldn't be able to do the easy method, which involves a light sanding and a new coat of sealant. Instead, we'd need some fairly aggressive sanding and two coats. Our floor suffered a little bit through four active babies and a busy family, most of whom inherited my tendency to drop things. As the years passed, it got dented and scratched and dinged in places. I cleaned the space under the bar so often that there was literally no finish left in spots. Slowly, each piece of wood outlined itself in dirt that couldn't be cleaned out. But, on the other hand: my battered wood floor didn't require much attention. If someone dropped something, I didn't cringe and worry about a shout and a ding.

It was a drama-free floor.

Somewhere in the last six weeks or so, we decided we'd get the floor refinished. I'm not really sure how this came about, other than we just couldn't stand it anymore, and we found someone who gave us a reasonable bid. So last week, I emptied everything out of my kitchen (which took longer than I expected), gave it a final sweep, and packed a bag (well, six bags to be precise) to make room for the wood floor guys. They sanded out the bumpy bits by the sink. They filled in the Phillips-head-screwdriver-shaped hole that those same plumbers made 18 years ago. They buffed out all the evidence of busy babies. And they applied the coats of sealant.

Today, my floor is beautiful again, a velvety, matte, gleaming surface. We're still living on fast food and snacks since we can't put the fridge and the stove back in until Monday night. Most of my kitchen is still crammed in my living room, and everyone has to wear socks until Tuesday morning. I am completely dreading the restuffing of the kitchen. But here's the strangest thing:

I feel guilty.

Like I should be apologizing for my newly-refurbished floor. Like I don't deserve it, or I should be embarrassed for it. I don't understand this shame. Perhaps it comes from the envy I feel about other people's houses—I try to tamp it down but I do wish for one of those big, beautiful houses on the hill. But there's a sense of, I don't know, pride, I suppose, that I take in our austerity. As if the fact that I don't have a big, beautiful house on the hill (bbhoh for short) were a badge of honor or a token of...something. Humility? Sackcloth and ashes? Making my floor look like it belongs in one of those bbhoh puts a tarnish on it. 

Maybe I understand it better than I thought.

To divert my consciousness from its shame spiral, I'm thinking about all the non-glamorous stuff we still have left to do. Like, save me: repaint part of the kitchen. I'd nearly rather do anything—go to the dentist, even—than painting. The entire hall needs to be repainted too, and the front room. There's that little twinge of knowing that even when it's painted, my house still won't be a bbhoh. And that even if I did live in one, I still would be clueless as to interior design. We'd just have a lot more empty wall space because we never find wall art we both like. It's my own weird quirk that the twinge is also a comfort.

Comments

[Jenna]

How funny - we just put granite countertops in our kitchen last week. We are eating fast food & using paper plates & plastic utensils because we don't have a working sink & dishwasher. I feel a little guilty for having something beautiful - but the green had to go.

I love your writing - I wish I could say things as eloquently as you.

[Becky K]

I understand the "shame" of having something nice. When our car got smashed last year and we had to buy a new one, I felt...unworthy. Sure, we'd bought new before, but it wasn't where we were in life then. We bought our used car (that was smashed and I still want to cry every time I see pictures of it) with pride - I loved that car. The new car was almost an embarrassment; yeah, we bought new, but we'd much rather be driving old. But circumstances made it the way it was, not pretense. So I get ya!

[Britt]

I so get this. Really, I do. It's like everything in the house needs to be equally old, warped, and loved. The new pretty thing somehow destroys the integrity of everything else. That's exactly how I felt when I got a new kitchen table.

[JanSC]

Thinking about a kitchen remodel - new floor, new cupboards, new countertops, and replacing electric oven with a gas. Been wondering about wood floors - we have tile now. Glad to hear wood floors can take a licking and keep on ticking. Love your blog.

[kathy28]

Put wood floors in with our kitchen remodel almost 3 years ago..still loving them.

[Kathy Carbone]

LOL @ the battered floor! Haha! You're really good in writing. You're right about babies and pets as other factors damaging the floor.