About 11:00 yesterday morning, I walked into our bathroom and heard a barely-audible crackle, felt a light dust and instinctively backed out, slowly, knowing the time had come. The time for the plaster.
Jacob mentioned to me a few weeks ago that we should probably fix the ceiling - a small crack in the plaster had recently experienced something of a growth spurt. Of course, we never did.
I pulled the door shut and was still staring at it when I heard a heavy crash.
When I peeked in, a huge chunk of antique horse hair plaster (yes, this is the Bluegrass), weighing at least 30 pounds had re-deposited itself onto the floor, the towels, the toilet and the sink. With nothing but some wood slating remaining between us and the attic, the situation in our little powder room looked pretty dire.
Thankfully, I happen to have a very handy husband with very handy friends and we hope to have it all sewn up (plastered up?) this week sometime so we can shower again. I am also thankful that, though I do have a quite prescient husband who suggests we address the growing cracks, he's sweet enough not to say 'I told you so.'
Maybe Tuesday will go a little smoother.
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