Building Staircases

Reading an essay about building a set of stairs, several of them, actually, and they were all quite beautiful and very complicated. I've built a great many myself, so I know the language and understand the math involved. A staircase involves mystifying geometries. Tom H, Dennis, and I installed sixteen sets in two new condos in Telluride, for another contractor whose crew couldn't figure out how to deal with log stringers and half-log treads. I sat in reverie for the better part of an hour remembering houses, visualizing how I had connected the floors. I remember most of them, despite it being a large number. Four or five of them were quite spectacular, thick hardwood treads that cantilevered, and a couple of sets that curved. The usual rule on a jobsite is that you don't mess with, or talk to, the person building the stairs; also, that they control the radio. Radios are ubiquitous on jobsites. You tend to hear a lot of Country Western music. I always liked to think and work the first couple of days on the weekend, when no one else was around, until I got the job settled in my mind. Once I could see them, in my mind's eye, I knew what needed to be done. In my last years of building I was much more aware of what the materials wanted to do. (In his later years he took to hoarding treads.) Railings became an important codicil. Early on, for a couple of cabins, I built what might better be considered tight spiral ladders and the railings were a problem. For the first ones I just went walking in the woods until I found a curved stick, a branch or a young tree, that fit the bill. Then I noticed that lumber yards had a scrap pile of sticks too crooked to be sold. They're free and often quite beautiful. One of my last complete house-building fantasies involved using only crooked sticks. Insulate it on the outside (with spray foam) and plaster it, expose the whole stick jumble on the inside. The floor could be cracked adobe, cured with ox-blood, grouted with a gross mixture of ground goat turds and resin. My policy has always been that if you can't smoke it or drink it, you can always use it to make grout. I hate to go, but yet another line of storms is coming in. Lighting up the sky. Loki, rolling thunder. No I told her, no I had no regrets, yes, of course, I'll call you tomorrow. Serious weather, the house shakes as I close down. What a trip. The base line of that last storm came up through my feet. Maybe it was an earthquake. I retreated to the sofa and rolled into a fetal ball. Sheet lightning you could read by. Then it was over: a quick fuck in the broom closet, you smooth out the wrinkles and act like nothing happened. I get back up, to re-set the clock, and decide it's officially morning. Might as well make a cup of coffee, might as well have an omelet and toast.