We moved into this house just over a month ago and I have been a small tornado spinning from one room to another without a clear plan, just knowing I had so much to do, and leaving destruction in my path. I finally 'completed' the living room, new paint has been slapped on those walls and I needed a new project. Every time I walked through the dining room, my eyes fell to the floor, like a child who didn't want to acknowledge a messy room that needed tending. The room was far from messy. The paper was bubbbled in some areas but mostly hung well. I had refurbished a dining room table and chairs and I was dying to tie it all together with finished walls. But where do you begin taking down wall paper? It sounded so daunting.
The first day, I prepared for a battle that hadn't even begun. I was armored with a spray bottle, a blade and high hopes. I discovered that the water and my little scraper were not up to the job that lay before me. However, when I scraped with my tiny tool I started unearthing a treasure inscribed on the walls...signatures, almost as clearly written as the day they were placed there.
The year was 1996 and the house was brimming with lights, sweet scents, and festive merriment. The West and Kleather families had gathered together, a Christmas like every other, under the Kleather roof on West Central. My uncle Larry boasted into the back door with his two fists hidden behind his back, undoubtedly bearing packages of Skittles for us kids. I could count on it as sure as I could Santa Clause. Aunt Sharon arrived parading pecan topped sweet potatoes and my uncle Bob behind her, with his arms full of red and green packages.
The rooms were full of laughter, noise, and children weaving between the legs of the adults. Everything was warm, familiar and wrapped up so tight on that December evening.
My mother had stripped the wall paper from the dining room, and my grandfather, John had called in the family members to sign the empty plaster walls. At the time, I was ten and thought it was silly but I could see the sentiment in tears in my grandfathers eyes.
I remember asking my mother why everyone had to sign the walls that were only going to be covered up in fanciful teal and cream wallpaper. "One day, someone may find them. They will know we were all here."
Of course we were all there...my aunts, my uncles, my giddy cousins eager for the presents to be unwrapped. The concept was as foreign to me as complex algorithms. In my ten year old mind we would always be there, gathered together around the decorated tree.
But that first day when I scraped off the paper and found my families names, I had realized how quickly those Christmas' had altered. I scraped quickly trying to find my grandfathers signature: John West. It was written so beautifully, in large fanciful writing. I placed my hand on it and was overcome with tears. I was not expecting my emotions to take over my afternoon, but they washed over me as I continued to scrape until I saw each person's signature for myself.
My Grandfather passed four years later, and three of my uncles have since passed. My other grandfather, whose name is also on the wall passed only a year ago. I cried touching signatures I hadn't seen in twenty years! How can it be twenty years?
I am almost through scraping off the paper from the rest of the walls. They have proven to have been quite the opponent. I have to choose a color to paint over the naked walls, and I am sure my heart will wince when I have to paint over those beautiful names. But as my children run in to give me goodnight kisses, I know the importance is not what is written on the walls but the love that is shared within them.
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