Building perspective

My father was the tallest person in the world. From his shoulders, I could hug the moon and tickle the stars. My mother was the feistiest, strongest, and most adventurous woman I’ve ever known – and still know. With her backing me, there was nothing I couldn’t achieve. I just damn well better be ready to fight for it. Together, my parents crafted a childhood rooted in accountability, independence, creativity, and endless possibility, with zero room for slacking off. There might be a good reason for something, but it was never an adequate excuse.

That was my perspective as a child. Never one of looking up. But always one where I was hoisted up so I could see straight across. Regardless of whether the view was one I wanted – or needed – or was ready to process. It was nonnegotiable but a powerful position to be in, nonetheless. Even if my head was only two feet from my toes.

The Christmas my father gave us our step stools exemplified that perspective. While his arms were always available to lift us higher, the step stools gave us the means to elevate our view just a little more – but this time, on our own terms. Each stool had our names painted in bold block letters across the top and I coveted mine. It wasn’t just a wood step stool; it was my own personal way of seeing the world from a new vantage point.

That step stool – flipped on its back – transformed into a majestic sailing ship that went on grand adventures. When used as intended, it gave me just enough height to reach the Vitamix filled with chocolate milk, though not quite enough to secure the lid before I launched its contents into the stratosphere. It became a doll bed and a makeshift barn for my Breyer horses. The closest I ever got to owning my own herd.

The step stool traveled with us from the wilds of Washington State to the desert sands of New Mexico and back again. Trusty, tried and true with its hand-hewn cuts, thick red and blue paint, and the white block letters of my name. My parents were all about letting us peek above our height but they especially enjoyed watching us do it under our own steam.

Several months ago, I caught a glimpse of that familiar red and blue paint, high on a shelf in the shop. It was nearing its sixth decade of life and – like its owner – somewhat worse for wear. Gouges in the top told stories of functioning as my workbench, my nail parlor, my Sunshine Family chariot, dragged across the floor, pulled by my team of plastic horsepower.

Over time – decades of time – one of the legs had been broken off and the step stool then relegated to dusty disuse, high on a shelf. I would never get rid of it but I also was too busy with life to do anything about it.

I knew when I spotted it that it was the day that I would finally get around to fixing it. Lord knows, I have the tools. And the know-how, thanks to parents who refused to teach me things but rather taught me how to learn. Why such a simple fix remained allusive for so many years was a mystery. Perhaps I had just figured out other ways to make up for my less-than-stratospheric height. Perhaps I was just lazy without the constant hum of my father’s frenetic energy swirling around me.

The stool was the simple construction that was my father’s hallmark. He used only hand tools, mostly because that’s what he had, but also because he was a bit of a woodworking purist. My workshop contains many of the tools that he carefully maintained throughout his life. They hang – mostly as dusty decoration – while I build my own set of powered alternatives.

I wrestled with the flathead screws that had held it together for half a century, my modern Dewalt bits proving useless against them. So, there I was, turning each screw a quarter turn at a time, sweating, muttering a few curses at my father, and painstakingly coaxing them out of the wood where they had burrowed for decades.

As I worked my way through disassembly, it dawned on me that I had a certain story to pass along. A practical perspective if you will. My parents worked hard to give us a limitless view of the world. I had tried to do the same for my five kids. I may not have always done it well, but my kids have grown into good people. Kids who, in turn, chose to share their lives with good people. Adults who are raising good people. So, there’s that.

I may not have provided the same level of free-wheeling parenting chutzpah I experienced in my childhood but my kids still parrot the words “make good choices” when their kids head out the door and live with my childhood soundtrack of “that’s a fine reason but a very poor excuse.”

That’s where the step stool project took off. Not to be outdone by my own poor planning, it took off as Christmas loomed on the horizon. The very near horizon.

I would make step stools for the grands. A place to rest. A place to climb. And a place to view the world. And in typical me-fashion, they’d be three times as tall as the original red and blue version. They’d have a hinged set of steps so they could function as a place to sit or a ladder or both. I self-censored plans to add LED lights, motorization, wheels, and handrails. Because, who needs handrails?

My first prototype was a bit wonky and completed with plywood. I quickly determined it would simply not do. The next iteration paid homage to my father’s construction techniques with solid wood and oak pegs to hold it together. No flathead screws for this girl. The insanity has to stop somewhere.

So, I set to work to bring the littles to the table. Or the counter. Or wherever they needed some help seeing the world from a raised perspective. The project started with great enthusiasm, sawdust flying, the table saw screaming through miles of wood, glue and wood filler, smoothing over the gaps in my woodworking knowledge and experience.

I worked day and night, busting out the first two so they could travel home with the eldest daughter to be presented on Christmas Day. The others falling into my theory that Christmas gifts are for a season, not just a specific day. Mema’s workshop quickly descended into the messy chaos that seems to follow in my wake. But they were taking shape and – breath held for the first test – worked as planned.

I received a video on Christmas Day of the first grands being introduced to the step stools that bore their names. The eldest carefully considered the function and practicality of his gift. Commenting “so, that’s what that was for” about the name he had artistically colored and was now lacquered to the top. “You can sit on it. And then use it for a chair… And it’s a step stool!”

The younger of the two – a full on match for his mother at the same age – didn’t pause for a moment, pushing his step stool across the floor to where it landed, precariously rocking back and forth. In a flash, he was at the top, arms wrapped through the aerial silks his mother practices with, ready to launch. I could hear my daughter’s nervous laugh as he balanced on his tippy-toes, enthralled with his newfound – and somewhat dangerous – vantage point.

Well, there you go. A place to rest. A place to climb. A chance to see the world from a different perspective. And fifty years after the red and blue stool made its way into my life, my grandson was using it to fly. I’m pretty sure my father would be proud and a tad concerned.

When the sawdust settled on the last step stool, I turned my eyes back to the tired and tattered red and blue version that had raised me up for years. It was time to make it whole again. I worried for a moment that I wouldn’t be able to match the wood, or the paint, or the love that had gone into its construction. I worried that it couldn’t be returned to its original glory. Then, in a very un-me decision, I chose function over changing anything about its weathered beauty. All it needed was a new leg – screwed in with those damn flathead screws – to return it to its place in life. My life.

A step up. A place to rest. A tool to reach new heights. The gift my parents gave us and my version of it for a new generation.