My grandmother built this house round about 1960. She had beautiful #1 hardwood floors put in. After a time, she decided they weren’t worth the effort to maintain (she was under the illusion you had to buff and wax them on the weekly) and had them covered up with some truly horrendous mustard colored carpeting.

When she died in 2008, my first priority was getting that God awful carpet ripped up. A friend helped me with the biggest part, and I was tasked with pulling up all the staples and nails and cleaning the wood from all the bits of carpet cushioning before putting down some nice area rugs. This was a JOB. I did it all with a claw hammer and my trusty needle nose pliers. I love needle nose pliers. Some staples came up easily, some I had to really fight with. And a very small number got left forever because they weren’t coming out, no way, no how. And once that was completed I went over it with a paint scraper, then some sort of cleaning agent, THEN the floor polish.

Three bedrooms and the hallway is what I slaved over. I had to get done before my furniture was delivered so I worked way into the night through the week and every moment those two weekends to get finished in time. And it seems like I had to get my library painted too. And the walls had to dry. I had fans going nonstop. I would lay down and my arms would quiver with fatigue. I remember taking Tylenol but the burn was always present for those few weeks. I remember complaining about the pain at work once and my manager at the time, whom we all agreed was barely human as he showed no empathy, actually commiserated. He told me a story of the first house he and his wife bought and remodeled. He said they’d work awhile, and cry. Sometimes he’d be so frustrated he couldn’t work, and she’d pick up the slack. They took time about this way. I didn’t have anyone to rest me, but it didn’t matter. Once I was finished the floors truly gleamed. They were gorgeous. I couldn’t imagine covering them with that hideous carpet. In an effort to save time, I had neglected to pull the carpet out of the closets when I had pulled it out of the rooms. Nobody was going to be looking in the closets and I could stand the carpet in there long enough for my arms to recover.

As time went by, I did finally get it pulled out of my bedroom closet and the library closet. But the coat closet in the living room retained it until one night a year or two later when it started bugging me and I had time on my hands. I pulled it out but for whatever reason I didn’t get the tacking out around the edges. Probably because that’s the hardest part, especially in such a tiny space. It left all these little pointy nails sticking up. This bothered me, but not too much because all that’s was ever stored in there was old boots and it wouldn’t hurt them.

Years go by. I get married. He uses the spare bedroom for his junk. He tears the carpet out of the closet when he’s painting. And leaves the tacky strips in the closet, I imagine for the same reason I did in the coat closet: it’s a pain in the hind end.

Some time after he’d moved his stuff I was again faced with those strips as I reorganized my possessions. I decided that would be a good use of some pent up rage and went to find my tools.

Well, I couldn’t budge the stuff. It had been over ten years since I’d pulled the other and I had forgotten just how ruthless you have to be. And I didn’t seem to have the right screwdriver or pry bar for the job, anyway. I sighed and vowed to look for something more appropriate next time I was at the hardware store. I loaded the closet with beach paraphernalia and forgot about it until I needed something out of there from time to time and it would be hung on one of those prickly tacks.

I eventually did pick up a spackler spreader tool that I thought looked narrow enough to shimmy under the yardstick looking stuff but I hadn’t yet used it.

So today I get a wild hair to clean out this coat closet. I wanted to throw out some old shoes and I knew there were sweatshirts in there I’d never wear again. And as I got deeper and deeper into this abyss, I remembered the little tacks that were sure to stab me, lest I tread carefully.

So tread carefully I did. And then I decided to be productive, unlike the previous two days, or any of my Christmas vacation, and tear that crap out once and for all, no matter what it took. I went in search of my tools.

And lo and behold, I stumbled upon my littlest most perfect screwdriver. And I knew as soon as my hand closed around it, we had been long separated but now we would once again do great things together. Whoever said a screwdriver is not a pry bar has never met me. Or my tiny, trusty companion.

And we went to work.

Within an hour, I had totally eradicated all traces of the tacky board and any wayward nails. I took a little break, ate some lunch, and moved my carpentry work to the writing room. We set in, guns a blazin’. I was after it now, take no prisoners.

So me, my Estwing hammer I bought at Sears when I was nineteen years old, my new spackler tool, and my very old, very much loved, t-tiny screwdriver got the job done today. I think I’ll retire it now.

I felt empowered. I haven’t done anything like this in twelve years. I didn’t really think I had it in me. My arms are aching, but I’m pleased with the results. When you have had someone to do all this kind of thing you forget that you used to have to do it or it wouldn’t get done. I guess I could have paid somebody, but then they would have wanted all the stuff out of the closet and I would rather struggle and do it myself. I showed myself I could, once again.

I don’t have fancy tools, or anything suited especially for the job at hand. I didn’t even have a $30 flashlight, which seems to be a necessity for most jobs. But I got it done with no help from anybody. I just laid in there and gritted my teeth and called it a sorry SOB when warranted and jerked that crap out.

And you can, too.

With this new year, I urge you to do something out of your comfort zone, something you think you’re not able to do. We’ve all seen the commercial with the man lifting weights so he could lift his granddaughter to put the star on the tree. Set your mind to whatever it is that you feel is out of reach. I hope you surprise yourself.

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