Three Steps

I take a lot of steps every day. On average, about 8,243. Odd that eight thousand two hundred forty three sounds much longer when you spell it out. In the next few moments, I’m going to open my door. It’s just not any door. It protects a very special place.

I’m in my old baby blue Victorian townhouse that was built just after the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. The style has since become the world’s archetype for San Franciscan architecture. It has a sturdy wooden construction with a steep roof and the builder chose to add a veranda rather than, the more popular, front porch. Thirty-seven craftsman worked on this home, and countless others made it possible along the way.

Sorry, I got distracted. I was going to get up and open that door. There is five feet (or three steps) between me and my exit.

I’m standing at the foot of a curving wooden stairwell with approximately two and one-half steps between me and the door. The door is rough, chipped and white now, but I imagine it used to be a brilliant white. The wood-working is majestic. Edging, bevels, and etching that would make the Moorish mosque builders proud. Every detail was meticulously hand-etched by some nameless master who humbly blessed me and numerous others with their soulful work. From time-to-time I’ve thought it advisable to get it refurbished, but there’s something magical in the worn details.

I wonder who painted it and what they were like. When he came in to paint the door in the fall of 1907, where did he come from? I can imagine him sitting on the floor in a dirty pair of overalls dipping his brush, cracking jokes with the other workers. About what? Maybe they jested about J.P. Morgan, speculators and the Wall Street Panic of 1907. Ah, no, that’s preposterous — the city was nearly burned to the ground less than six months earlier. I’m confident there were more pressing local matters on their mind. Nevertheless, did they realize that over one hundred years later I’d be staring down at where they sat in awe.

A step! I am off the stairs and about 30 inches from the door. The floor is comprised of ornate marble tiling. Black and white geometric patterns are formed. When you stare, it doubles as a Rorschach test. Suffice to say, I haven’t passed or failed the test yet as I don’t understand it.

The marble, as I’ve been told, was from a quarry in Proctor, Vermont. The bearded miner in the quarry was probably odd. Probably had quite a belly laugh or, no, a high-pitched cackle. Ha, the cackling miner. I can imagine it would make a person a bit eccentric digging, chipping and hauling all day. One should learn to divert himself to adapt to such arduous labor.

The home has two tons of marble in total that was moved over 3,106 miles (or 6,855,972 steps) prior to the highway system.

If I were to do it, I’d move it by land to a barge on Lake Ontario. Then it would navigate the Great Lakes to Chicago. It may have been in time to watch the Cubs win their first World Series. To the chagrin of all modern Cubs fans, they’d only win once more in 1908. Finally, the shipment would take a journey on the Southern Pacific Railway to San Francisco. How much these stones have seen! Marble, like many great things, is birthed from an environment of great pressure.

My hand reaches for the loose copper knob to turn it 193° counter-clockwise to collapse the latch and free the creaky door. There are over 197,316 U.S. patents on door knobs and locks. Dozens of which are playing a role in the swift turn that will release me from my antique dream world. To think of all the inventors sitting in their desks, hair a-mess (or long since missing), drawing diagrams with hopes they will make them rich.

The sun is shining brighter today than most other days. Although, if my memory serves me, I think that most days, which may just make this an average day.

Every step is a little a miracle to me. Maybe I ask too many questions, or maybe we should all ask a few more. But in the end, life’s in the details. The little moments we decide to grace with some meaning.