Our 1920s story and ¾ is quaint, charming and full of deathtraps. There are two traps to be exact, one leads to the second floor and one leads to the basement. The stairs are treacherous, scary and too small for any feet of this giant generation, far removed from the dainty steps of decades gone by.
When guests request a tour of our home, we are proper guides and remind them to watch their steps. People are amazed at how steep the stairs are and my husband and I just grin. We consider the stairs a badge of honor – something we survive to live in our home.
My sunny view of the situation changed after the stairs started attacking their homeowners.
A floor expert working in another part of the house set one foot on the stairs and told us the covering was all wrong.
“You have 1980s plush carpet on tiny, steep stairs – it’s a recipe for slipping,” he said.
He recommended a thinner, Berber carpet to better represent the style of the home and to make the stairs a little safer.
A few days later, my husband was leaving for work when I heard a terrible crash down the stairs.
“Are you alright?” I hollered.
“Yes,” he called back.
He informed me later that I laughed at him, but that doesn’t really sound like my natural reaction to someone falling down the stairs. I’m sure he told a good story and then a laughed – yes, that scenario is much more likely.
It had been months since the stairs viciously attacked him and it was all but forgotten until one Sunday morning when I put on a pair of new athletic socks. Their plush feeling and newness made me resent my worn out socks, if only for a minute.
Hearing the whining of a Maple ready for the great outdoors, I had extra urgency in my step. From my voice, came an adaptation of a song for Maple, but the tune stopped abruptly as I slipped on the top step and I rocketed down the 13-step flight of stairs, feet first.
The plush feeling of my socks vanished and so did that of the carpet.
How the rolls became reversed as my husband quickly ran from another part of the house.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“Yes,” I squeaked.
Upon further investigation it appeared I was not ‘all right.’
First of all, my ego got bruised, which always throbs more than any physical pain. My right elbow had a festive arrangement of purple dots that may be the most artistic bruising I’ve ever seen, my tailbone was bruised causing me to flinch every time I sat, my knee felt a little funny for a while and I had a great stamp of the carpet texture on my left shoulder.
I’m moving to the main floor.