Unlike others who move into their new homes with only a few unfinished items to deal with – perhaps window coverings or a light fixture on backorder, we moved in without as much as running water that cold, rainy November 1st, 1967.
Our kids spent the week in Iowa with my parents, allowing Paul and me to get our bearing (he showered and shined at school). We were thrilled about finally having a place of our very own after renting our first twelve years of marriage – putting up with inconveniences seemed hardly a problem (like sleeping on the kitchen floor, because the oak flooring in the bedrooms had yet to be finished and the living room carpeting would wait for three years). The workmen did finish by the end of the week, so we had running water by the time we retrieved the kids.
One of our many projects was to install ceramic tile in the upstairs bathrooms. My dad, the expert in such matters, promised to help again, as soon as he would have a break in his work schedule. He’d already installed a very utilitarian downstairs shower—large industrial-sized cream-colored tile left over from one of his jobs, probably a locker room shower in a school. Needless to say, the shower lacked in aesthetic qualities, but it was so practical and used by all over the years.
Finally, the day came when my folks were able to come to Cottage Grove again so Dad might begin the tiling project. All went well – he completed laying up pale green tile in the master bath shower and pastel blue in the other bathroom.
Before they left Dad assured me that I would be able to complete the job of grouting between the tiles. Bear in mind, Dad had a reputation as a tough, exacting taskmaster. (Once, after my brother Carl laid up a portion of a brick wall not to Dad’s standards, Dad kicked it over, leaving Carl to not only clean up the bricks, but to lay them over again.)
But Dad showed patience with me, demonstrating how I should:
- mix a small batch of cement at a time
- Smear it over the cracks between tiles with a putty knife
- Smooth the wet “mud” by sliding my middle finger along the crack
- Make certain the crack was sealed, with no bubbles surfacing
He told me to mix small batches of “mud,” as he called it, in an empty cottage cheese carton, because the mud sets up very quickly. In addition, I would need to clean the tile with a wet cloth to remove any residue before the cement dried.
After I put toddler Jon down for his afternoon nap and before the school bus arrived with the other three, I grabbed “grouting tie.” I think the job took me at least two weeks. I thought I did a satisfactory job, and the next time Dad visited, my work passed inspection.
The word got out – and my older sister Miriam in St. Paul wanted her bathroom tiled too. After all, if her younger sister Carol had succeeded in the grouting department, she could probably do the job even better.
Of course, Dad wouldn’t say no, so he packed his tools and drove to St. Paul. I’m certain he went through the procedure of how-to, how-not-to, why’s and wherefores exactly as he’d done with me.
So, Dad got the tile set and because it was nearing dinner-time, Ernie asked him to go out for steaks. Miriam was anxious to get started. And she did.
Miriam and I have different learning styles. I’m a good visual learner, and I have to admit that my dad and his reputation as a demanding taskmaster put the fear of God in me. I’m not certain what Miriam’s learning style is but she never lacked for self-confidence.
Upon return the BIG PROBLEM surfaced. Miriam apparently thought she had a more efficient way of grouting than Dad had outlined. Instead of mixing the grout in a cottage cheese carton, she rounded up a bunch of Mason jars and mixed the grout in all of them.
So, instead of heading home the following day, Dad first had to go shopping for another bag of grout, then return to 1910 Holten Avenue for a day of grouting,
