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Illustration by Drew Shannon
“Are you still climbing all those stairs?” The question invariably comes after friends say, “You’re looking good,” tactfully not adding, “for your age.”
“Yup. Still tapping up and down.” I do a little soft shoe shuffle for emphasis. “just like Shirley Temple and Bill Whatzisname in that musical a hundred years ago.”
They shake their heads. Same old question, same old response. They’ve been razzing us about our hardwood stairs ever since we bought this old farmhouse 50 years ago.
There were three flights, one from the main floor bending to the second, a narrow flight to the third-floor attic rooms, and treacherously narrow stairs down to the basement. When we moved in, we had no money for carpets. Or rugs. We scraped. cleaned, waxed and polished the floors and left it to our toddlers in terry-towel jumpsuits to keep the main staircase shiny as they crawled up.
We did stress caution and as they grew older, “No running up and down the stairs,” was the rule, totally ignored by my son and his playmates. There was the odd tumble but nothing serious until an overnight guest, trying to leave quietly one morning without disturbing the rest of the house, started down the stairs in stocking feet, shoes in hand, lost her footing around the bend and bumped all the way to the bottom. Luckily her bottom was well padded and she wasn’t injured. Or so she claimed. Though in a letter later she suggested a runner might be a good investment.
It was a rude awakening for all of us and another rule was established, “Bare feet only or solid shoes on the stairs.” Again ignored as my husband’s favorite foot attire at home was soft leather moccasins, the soles worn smooth while I, under five feet, usually trotted up, down and around in high heels.
The stairs didn’t loom large in our consciousness. We were younger, livelier and ran up and down many times a day without concern. Though as we grew older, carrying a load of freshly washed linens from the basement to the third floor could be tiring and we’d have to pause to catch our breath on the landings.
After our kids flew the nest and we were alone, many of our friends in similar situations moved into apartments or condos. “Life is so much easier,” they said, “no grass to cut, no snow to shovel. You walk in the front door, step in the elevator and bingo! you’re home. When are you putting your house on the market? You can’t go on climbing all those stairs!”
Our daughter brought a friend over to meet the “old folks at home” and on his very first visit he looked up at the stairs and said, “These could be dangerous. Have you ever thought about putting rubber treads on them?”
We had. And rejected them because they were dust collectors. We preferred a quick swipe of the bare stairs with a mop, possibly unconsciously defying the odds, maybe even enjoying a fillip of danger.
Our son, home from the West Coast for a visit but really to check on his aging parents, suggested, “You might investigate one of those gliders where you sit down, press a button and zoom up.”
“What happens if there’s a power failure?” we protested. “And our legs have atrophied because of no exercise.”
“They don’t listen to reason,” our daughter said. “I’ve been telling them for years what they really need is a railing on the wall across from the banister so they can grip both sides.”
“I can’t do that with an armful of books,” said her father.
“I need one hand free for my coffee,” I added.
Both children shrieked and threw up their hands in horror. “You told us for years we should never, ever go upstairs carrying liquids, especially hot liquids! What is wrong with you two?”
“What we really do need,” we said when they calmed down, “is a ramp.”
“A ramp!” More shouts and hands in the air. “Where would you put a ramp?”
“Up to the front porch for our friends who use walkers,” we explained.
We’re slow moving. We hadn’t arranged for a ramp before my 92-year-old husband walked gingerly downstairs for his final trip to the hospital.
“He was amazing,” people said. “For his age.”
Some people run, some drive to the gym, others wear watches to count their steps. But a few trips up and down stairs after breakfast gets my blood flowing and the muscles working and I’m set for the day. Occasionally my back and joints rebel and I’m reduced to a snail’s pace. But speed is no longer a priority.
The world is still wonderful, and at 94 I’m grateful to these old stairs which kept both of us mobile for over 50 years and now still do for me. Though I no longer attempt a tap dance routine … except occasionally in the kitchen when a catchy tune comes on the radio.
Corinne Langston lives in Toronto.