Wonderful White

I discovered the wonder of white paint right after my husband Adam and I married and moved into our first home. We purchased a 1923 stucco side-hall colonial on North Summit Avenue in Chatham, New Jersey. It was a storied house as I learned from our neighbor, Mrs. Duane, an older woman who had lived on the street since the thirties. She told us Mr. Smith, a wealthy executive at MAC trucks had the home custom built for he and his wife Edna who was handicapped and confined to the second floor as the only bathroom in the house was located upstairs. When Mrs. Duane moved into her house, four houses down the road from the Smiths, Mr. Smith quickly made his way over to introduce himself and ask her if she would let him park his car in her garage as the previous owner had allowed him to do. Mrs. Duane and her husband did not own a car, so she granted him the garage, and I gathered she was handsomely compensated for its use. A few years later, Mr. Smith brought a baby girl home, clearly not Mrs. Smith’s daughter. The scandal was known throughout the town, but no one dared ask where the baby came from, and no explanation was offered. And while the Smiths had been long gone from the house when we moved in, I found glass bottles that must have held libations during prohibition in the attic floor along with Mr. Smith’s checkbook. I treasured it all.

I was thankful to learn about the original occupants of that house from Mrs. Duane because I absolutely loved that house. It’s where my husband Adam and I started our lives together. Our three boys were born while we lived there, and our neighbors became family. Adam and I were young, and we believed life promised us only good things for you can only envision health and happiness when you are in your twenties with beautiful little boys. I truly only have happy memories of our time on North Summit Avenue. Many of those memories include Adam fixing the plethora of problems that accompanied our charming little house which came replete with knob-and-tube wiring, old plumbing, falling plaster and lots of leaks. A week after moving in, Adam bought a do-it-yourself book from Home Depot and got to work teaching himself how to put up drywall, run electrical wires, frame out rooms and cut trim. He happily did it all for his “bride” which he lovingly called me even after years of marriage.

It was while I lived in this tiny old house that I realized what an amazing tool white paint is. My gallon of white paint was the gentle companion to Adam’s hammers and drills, but I soon discovered it was just as powerful.  A fresh coat on the trim, doors, walls, a piece of furniture, and yes, even the floors salvaged so much and could bring anything back to life.

The best use of white paint came on our foyer stairs. When we pulled up the carpet, the stairs were disgusting, stained with cat urine and worn out from the many trips that the Smiths and the two residents after them took up and down those steps. We didn’t have the money to sand the floors yet, and Adam looked at me incredulously when I suggested painting them white, but as usual, he acquiesced, and put his trust in my vision. I remember we painted those stairs on the way out to a weekend in Boston for my friend’s wedding so they could dry for the two days we were gone. Those white stairs brightened that narrow hallway like nothing else could have. They were clean, crisp and classic.

We eventually had to move from our sweet stucco starter home as the boys grew, but I think of it often. Adam and I were so young and full of life when we lived there, and the eleven years we spent on North Summit were full of transition, excitement, great times and great friends. It saddened me to move out, but there would be other memories to make in a new place, so I packed up my white paint cans and brushes, and our little family moved on.