Our story so far: Things were looking up in the old Methodist church we were turning into our home when my husband Tyler finished constructing the floor of the balcony in the great room.

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Now we could not just imagine but actually see all the square footage we had added with this balcony. It was magnificent even in its inchoate state. We had essentially added a second living room; one would be able to watch the big-screen TV on the main floor from the balcony. Tyler described the dream recliner he wanted to situate there in all its roomy, reclining leather glory.

But the drawback of all that square footage was all that square footage. We had planned to save a lot of money on flooring by restoring the Douglas fir, oak and pine floors throughout the rest of the main floor and second story. But there was no restoring the plywood flooring on the balcony.

A trip to a flooring store yielded one word when the salesman announced the price per square foot of the carpeting we liked: “Ouch.”

OK, well we could put off that decision (and expense) for a while. Clearly, we would have to shop around. One of the Big Box retailers was summoned to measure and provide a quote, maybe install the ethereal loop-pile carpeting in a creamy white with light gray lattice pattern we saw displayed on an endcap. It was called “Snowflake.” I was reminded of humorist Erma Bombeck who once quipped, “All of us have moments in our lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with white carpet is one of them.”

“Do we dare install white carpeting?” I asked, polling family members with chunks of Snowflake, Moon Dust and Hammerhead.

“The Hammerhead is safer,” my son-in-law said.

But everyone else voted for creamy white.

I didn’t know if we had the courage required to install such light-colored carpeting in the place. But on the other hand, weren’t we—a couple in their 50s with no children in the house looking to cover a floor far from muddy outside entrances—the perfect candidates for white carpeting?

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Tomorrow: Nailing a railing. Read about it here.

Our story so far: The 20-foot ceiling in the sanctuary—our future great room—was the whole reason we were interested in the old Methodist church so we wanted it to look not just good but grand. 

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As long as the scaffolding was in place (and before we built the balcony), Tyler enlisted the drywallers to paint the sanctuary ceiling. As with the drywall, they were nothing if not efficient. They used a sprayer and an enormous roller to do the work. When I walked into the sanctuary to check their progress, it was like walking into fog; the process created an astonishing amount of airborne particulates. Hours later, a fine white dust covered everything in the room.

What color white? This was another detail that mattered. I didn’t want neon white—this was no hospital—so I chose Behr’s Sleek White in eggshell. It was that or Polar Bear, which had a grayish cast. I hoped I chose well.

How much paint is required to paint a church ceiling? Now we knew. We purchased ten gallons of primer and ten gallons of white paint. I couldn’t even lift the buckets! Then, two days later, I picked up two more gallons of paint so the drywallers could finish the job. Twenty-two gallons. That’s a lot of paint.

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Tomorrow: Building a balcony begins with two steps. Read about it here.

Our story so far: My husband Tyler and I purchased a 126-year-old Methodist church to turn into our home. Three months in, we had completed demolition and were deep into the framing and mechanicals phase of the project.

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Chapter 21

Our Number One design rule was “details matter,” and this was most important starting at the top: The ceilings. The high ceiling in the sanctuary—our future great room—was the whole reason we were interested in a church so we wanted it to look not just good but grand. This is where the finishing work began.

As soon as they had completed demo on the sanctuary ceiling, the drywallers got to work installing the product from which they derived their name: Drywall.

Drywall, for the uninitiated, is a panel made of gypsum plaster pressed between thick sheets of paper. In modern homes, drywall is rarely seen but it literally surrounds us, concealed with paint or wallpaper or paneling inside our walls and ceilings. In the 1950s, it began replacing the traditional lath and plaster as a speedier alternative. We’d removed a good deal of plaster lath from the church to expose areas where we required ducts, pipes and wiring, but on the whole we left it intact where we could because it was strong and secure. But this wasn’t the Sistine Chapel, and we weren’t creating frescos in the plaster. Our sanctuary ceiling required new drywall to replace the fiberboard tiles that were there when we bought the church.

Drywall comes in 4-by-8-foot sheets, and the drywallers chose to get it into the church with a boom truck through the upstairs windows. One might think an eighth-inch doesn’t make any difference in most matters, but not Tyler. He chose 5/8-inch drywall for the sanctuary ceiling because it was stiffer and laid flatter. It was also heavier. At one point, Tyler’s hired man St. Johnny and I moved a few pieces out of the way, and it was like, well, like hitting a brick wall.

But the unwieldiness of these large sheets of drywall didn’t deter the drywall team, even as they navigated scaffolding fifteen feet high and higher. Mudding the seams came next, and in a matter of a few days, they had performed their magic.

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Tomorrow: How many gallons does it take to paint a church ceiling? Read about it here.