Jacques had only one speed – fast. The man did everything fast. He worked fast, he played fast, he ate fast – and he had no ability to rest. He also became bored very quickly. We were working in two separate cities at the time and Jacques would come home on weekends. I learned very quickly that if I didn’t want Jacques to start pacing the floors that it was a good idea to keep household projects on hand for him to do. Because of his incredible speed – my “to do” list never quite satisfied his needs. He came up with his own projects and one of them was renovating our apartment – which would have been a welcomed addition – except Jacques wasn’t much of a guy for details.
I came home after work but couldn’t get in the front door – the security chain was on. “Come through the back,” Jacques shouted. I trudged around the block and climbed the back balcony stairs to our living room entrance. Through the window, I could see Jacques with a bandana tied to his head, wheeling a gigantic floor sander in the entrance hallway. As I reached for the doorknob, the machine exploded. A sawdust cloud filled the entire small space. I quickly ran into the room in time to see Jacques emerge from the cloud, waving his arms and sputtering. “Are you OK?” I asked, “What happened?” Jacques shrugged his shoulders and then grinned at me, “I’m fixing the floors.” “I can see,” I replied. Jacques and I cleaned up the hallway and as I started to fix our dinner, he continued his work. I glanced into the bedroom where he was happily sanding away. He was dancing with the machine using it as his partner for a fancy salsa routine and silently singing to himself. After watching for a few moments, I tilted my head in confusion and asked him a question. “Sweetheart, aren’t you supposed to sand the floor with the grain of the wood?” “It doesn’t matter,” he told me. “Oh – OK,” I said backing out of the door. The final outcome of Jacques’ floor sanding adventure was a surface with sanded grooves that moved in crazy directions with an uneven dark (unsanded) border around the rooms. All sealed with a lovely layer of polyurethane.
I came home from tour to find a thick twenty-feet by six-feet wall of bamboo matting propped up against the wall in our bedroom. I wasn’t amused. “Jacques,” I said, “move the bamboo. We don’t live in Vietnam.” “How about in the bathroom?” he ventured. “Fine,” I said, “Just get it out of the bedroom. The next day, Jacques installed the bamboo matting in the bathroom. Big crashing sounds soon emanated from the bathroom. I glanced into the bathroom in time to see Jacques ripping the towel rack from the wall spraying large chunks of wall plaster into the bathtub. I looked at Jacques and he was happy as a clam. “Sweetheart,” I said, “I’m going to go do the groceries.” I left. Sometimes when Jacques was destroying our home, it was just a lot smarter for me to leave the disaster area. When I returned – he was done. “It’s beautiful,” he gushed. I looked into the room and agreed with him. That night as I soaked in the bathtub, I looked around the room and took in Jacques job. Sure enough – it was up to his usual standard. To attach the bamboo to the wall, he had used nails that we had in the apartment. Big thick nails with a half inch head. The nails had split most of the bamboo where they were used and he had used a lot of them. Hundreds of big thick nails sticking into the wall in a haphazard pattern. Rather than rip the built-in corner cabinet that sat over the bathtub, he cut the bamboo to fit. He had started with the right idea. Unfortunately – that idea didn’t carry through. He had cut a shorter piece to go under the cabinet but rather than stop when the cabinet ended and continuing with a long piece to cover the wall surface that continued to the doorway, he mounted the short piece to the wall all the way to the door. He then cut another short piece and layered it above the bottom, mashing the two pieces together with a hammer and installing them with a generous amount of big thick nails. The bathroom was a disaster but I never said a word. Jacques was happy and he was proud of his work. You just can’t get angry with a man who is that happy and that helpful.
Jacques had a week off and we were sitting down to breakfast when Jacques looked around. “I’m going to paint the living room today,” he announced, “Do we have any white paint left-over?” “I think there is some paint in the storage closet,” I said, pointing to the closet door, “But there isn’t enough paint to do the walls. You’ll have to get other paint. I would just buy new paint because you know how there are different shades of white and I’m not sure you can find the tint mark on the can anymore.” Jacques grunted in what I thought was agreement and I left for work. Right before my lunch break, Jacques stopped by the studio. “I’m off to buy paint,” he told me. He wasn’t carrying the old paint can so I reiterated the need to buy a sufficient amount of new paint. I arrived home a little after seven o’clock. The living room was done. The furniture and pictures had been returned to their places and dinner was on the table – a wonderful roast with fresh vegetables. I was impressed. We sat at the table and ate his delicious meal. When it was over, Jacques proudly produced a cake that he had baked. I was even more impressed. He had used one of my cookbooks and the man could barely read English. What a guy! As we sat savoring his cake, I took in the freshness of the room. Something was off. I stared at the walls for a few more minutes before it finally dawned on me. “Jacques,” I ventured, “Did you use the old paint?” “Yep,” he smiled with cake crumbs around his mouth. He looked so happy and so pleased with himself. I kept my mouth shut. Sure enough, the next morning the natural light pouring in through the windows proved my suspicions. Half of the living room was painted with white paint that had a yellow tone to it and half was painted with white paint that had a violet tone. The place where he had run out of the old paint and started with the new created a crazy wavy line that ran around the room in splotchy pattern. He was so pleased with himself – I kept my mouth shut. After all – he did bake a cake.