Hijinks on the stairwell

For some reason, I’m reminiscing about the hijinks that happened in transit from upstair to downstairs. I recall tray-surfing (not that I ever participated) and almost-daily leaps onto the landing from basement-bound Taylors, with the apparent goal of using the plywood landing as a bass drum. One day I had just finished a relatively peaceful descent only to have Jon (aka Spiderman) leap downward at me from his perch high up in the doorway. He had wedged himself up high by bracing his feet against the door jambs (he MUST have been wearing sneakers) and lying in wait like a spider waiting for prey. I can’t recall what I said, probably because I was startled speechless (well done, Spider-boy!). I think afterward Jon said, “ow, that hurt my feet, landing on the hard floor” and I probably told him he deserved it. I also recall that Mom stood at the top of the stairs and held the waistband of my just-washed jeans, while I held the leg hems and let my weight stretch out the wet denim a tiny fraction of an inch. Back then, I was desperate to keep my jeans from becoming high-waters, but my legs were just growing too fast, and we didn’t have the clothing budget to seek out longer and longer jeans. We probably only gained a tenth of an inch, but we kept trying. The most annoying thing that ever traveled down the stairs was sound. Specifically, the rousing strains of Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever” in the still morning hours, snaking its way into sleeping ears and waking us more efficiently than parental coaxing (or parental growling). Mom’s devious behavior won our surly attendance at the breakfast table (without her wasting any time nudging Jon and me repeatedly), but I can now offer grudging admiration at the efficacy of her solution. I’ve met other parents who employed the same technique, and we should be grateful Mom didn’t pool resources with them and give us polkas at high volume. Or Senegalese drum jams, or Jamaican steel pan calypso!