Fatherly Advice Must Have Shelf Life
Dad was a great guy. He taught me to throw a ball, respect my mother and tell a joke. What more could you ask of a father? I picture Dad, after having completed those tasks when I was young, rubbing his hands together and saying, “I’ve done all I can.”
Not quite. There was this one glaring omission....
This morning I ask -- make that beg -- all current or prospective fathers of young boys: Take 30 minutes with your son and show him how to lay down adhesive shelf paper. Insist that he understand it’s no joke. Impress upon him that not learning how to do it will lead to exasperating hour upon hour at some point in later life -- a point when he will question his own worth as a human being, cry out in angry frustration and want to hurl objects, and himself, against walls.
Fast approaching my sunset years and suddenly in a new apartment, I finally reached that point last week. Only then did I realize how lucky I have been over the years to always have a woman -- wife, mother, sister -- who knew how to do it. I’d go off to work and by the time I got home, boom, the shelves were lined.
Last week it was just me, the paper with a nice blue pattern and 30 naked shelves and drawers. They had to be papered, because the surfaces had the texture of a park bench. My sister was coming in this weekend, but I was determined to do the papering myself. Eight of the shelves were 52 by 11 inches; others were all over the map: 15 by 23, 28 by 17, 18 by 9.
I had a tape measure and scissors. What could be so hard about measuring, cutting and applying paper to surface?
I first asked that question, oh, about 8:30 Wednesday night.
By 12:30 a.m. Thursday, I knew.
I had done three of the longest shelves and a few smaller drawers, but it vexed me that the paper wouldn’t stay down.
Applying Scotch tape not only looked bad aesthetically, it wasn’t helping.
Sometime after midnight, I noticed the underside of the paper. These words jumped out: “Separate the backing from the paper.”
What???
I could have sworn the label said non-adhesive paper. I expected it to lay flat, like any other paper on a surface.
Besides, the paper was wafer-thin; no reasonable person would have assumed there were two sheets.
Dad should have explained all that years ago.
I started all over Thursday night about 8. A friend at work gave me a tip on peeling the backing. It worked beautifully. The true essence of shelf paper unfolded before me.
Now came the fun part.
Over the years, I’d heard it called “contact paper.” A better name would be “comes-into-contact-with-everything-in-the-vicinity paper.”
I soon learned that, if left unattended, the paper has an insatiable appetite to eat itself. And then it goes after you. Just as you’re extricating one part of the paper from your body, another part attacks. Before long, you and the paper are one indistinguishable ball, tangled up in blue and battling each other in the bowels of a kitchen cupboard.
It is fly paper. You are the fly.
Despite his failings, my father didn’t raise a quitter. By 1:30 a.m., all shelves were lined. Not to be immodest, but I believe I developed techniques never used before.
Twenty-four hours after feeling like a loser, I was awash in self-satisfaction and drenching perspiration. With adrenalin pumping like a jackhammer, I hung my new shower curtain, with liner, at 2 a.m.
Maybe Dad knew this all along. Maybe he knew that down the line I’d face the shelf-paper crisis alone and that I’d be a better man for figuring it out myself.
Nah. My mother has since confirmed he was clueless around the house.
That’s why I’m urging you fathers that the next time young Billy wants to go outside and play catch for a half-hour that you stop him in his tracks and say, “Son, there’s something I want to show you in the kitchen.... “
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Dana Parsons’ can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at dana.