JULY 17, 2021 – Only when I was older and visiting the house in which I spent my first six years did I realize how steep the staircase was between the ground floor and the second story. I’m sure it wouldn’t comply with modern building codes. As I navigated up and down the stairs during that visit, it became clear to me why back in the day I’d had so many tumbles “down the mountain.”
As I remember, falling was a regular, terrifying event. The world—stairs, railing, banister, ceiling, wallpaper, wall at the top of the staircase and wall at the bottom of the staircase, rug on the oak flooring at the foot of “the mountain”—that world, went suddenly and violently topsy-turvy. On the way down, my head and limbs made what sounded to me like an awful racket, reverberating within the echo chamber of the staircase “tunnel.” The five or six seconds I spent somersaulting down the stairs scared the daylights out of me, and quite naturally, each crash landing left me crying bloody murder. An older sister or one of my parents would then scoop me up, brush me off, and hold me until the crying and “hiccup breaths” subsided.
Eventually, I got used to it. I distinctly remember the day when yet again, I lost my footing and went into the usual free-fall, but . . . instead of experiencing raw terror, I thought, “Ho hum. Here I go again.”
At some point, my dad decided to take remedial action. He bought a gate designed specifically to draw across a staircase opening to prevent small kids from base jumping accidentally. It remains a mystery as to why he waited for me to fall 500 times before he decided the gate would be a good idea.
The occasion must have been on a weekend, because it was in the middle of the day and Dad wasn’t at work. He was making a proper project out of the gate installation. I remember all the tools lying on the hallway floor at the top of the staircase—hammer, screwdriver, tape measure, and . . . brace-and-bit, which I’d seen him use before, much to my fascination. In his hands, his wide assortment of tools worked all kinds of magic, but I was especially mesmerized by his command of the gangly brace-and-bit.
I watched intently every movement, every detail of Dad’s gate project. It took a long time, but that was perfectly okay. For me it was pure enjoyment. After tightening the last screw, Dad drew the gate closed and latched it by putting a hook through an eyelet. He did this a couple of times, to make sure everything was lined up properly.
It all looked so perfectly simple. As Dad gathered up his tools, I thought I’d mimic his graceful operation of the gate. I stepped up to it and without any problem, pulled the hook out of the eyelet and pushed the gate open.
Fortunately, I didn’t step off the ledge before Dad could catch me.
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© 2021 by Eric Nilsson
