Our story so far: As we proceeded with renovating the old Methodist church, we purchased twenty-three gallons of paint for our painter, who I’d nicknamed Low Talker for his soft-spoken manner.

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The painter then moved on to the second floor, where he began by spraying a couple of coats of polyurethane on the pickled plywood ceiling. Spraying the stuff around a horrible, stinky job. At first, I thought he was just a sweaty guy—painting was hard work. But eventually, after I asked St. Johnny about how hot it must be on the second floor, we both realized Low Talker wasn’t covered in perspiration. It was much easier for him to get clean at the end of the day of spraying paint around when he first coated exposed parts of his body—like his flowing locks—with baby oil. No wonder his hair looked as soft as his voice sounded.

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Tomorrow: Interior windows. Read about them here.