The older I get, the more I resent stairs. I am starting to understand why so many older folks fall in love with ranch-style homes. Never thought I would see that day. Then again, I once said the same thing about minivans, bland food and hearing aids. Aging is basically a long string of personal betrayals.

As a kid, though, stairs were entertainment. Our basement stairs were unfinished with open backs on every step. They were just wide enough for me to crawl through, so, naturally, I did it dozens of times a day. Eventually, my head grew larger than my judgment, and one day my skull got wedged between the steps.

I yelled for my brother Steve, who was upstairs. What I failed to consider was the extra pressure on my trapped head when he thundered down the staircase. He apologized — sort of — then laughed like a maniac while prying the steps apart to free me. That was the end of my stair-crawling career.

The stairwell fun, however, was just getting started. Back then, kids could turn almost anything into a toy, especially if it carried a moderate risk of concussion. One of our prized possessions was a tire inner tube wrapped in white canvas. I think it was meant to be some kind of mini trampoline, but Steve and I saw the greater potential of basement stair sledding.

The tube fit perfectly between the stairwell walls, and Steve thought it would be hilarious for me to test it first. He was right. Leaning forward produced a thrilling combination of somersaults and face plants all the way down. Steve assured me the second attempt would go better if I leaned backward. Miraculously, he was correct. The result was a smooth, bumpy ride to the bottom with only minor spinal compression. We rode those stairs over and over until, inevitably, we invented something even dumber.

The next event was essentially ski jumping without skis, snow or adult supervision. We started by leaping from the bottom stair onto the inner tube below. Then we moved up one step at a time. The challenge was simple: jump farther and survive.

Oddly enough, I got pretty good at it. I even out-jumped my older brother, whose height gave him the disadvantage of cracking his head on the ceiling. Eventually, I made it all the way to the top step. Standing there, staring down the staircase, I felt like Evel Knievel — if Evel Knievel had worn tube socks and a T-shirt with grape Popsicle stains.

Steve urged me to go for it. So I launched myself into the air, eyes wide, legs tucked and then stretched out, fully expecting glory. Instead, I landed squarely on my tailbone on the bottom step.

That bone-rattling crash ended the stairwell Olympics for good. It may also explain why ranch homes suddenly seem less like retirement housing and more like good long-term planning.

Have a terrific Tuesday, and thanks for reading.

Shane Goodman
Editor and Publisher
Times Vedette digital newsletter
shane@gctimesnews.com
641-332-2707