Rule of Thumb

Jan 29 2016

I watched as he nailed the steps.

Not so much hammering

as launching the head

into easy flight;

fluid wrist

           …dead aim

                         …perfect strike.

So the nail ends straight

flush against the wood.

A chorus of hammers

is all erratic sound;

like a crew of roofers

bending busily to work.

So how uncanny

when, by chance, they converge

in a single solid thud.

 …Only to disperse,

flying-off

like startled birds

scattering.

I am reassured by this;

that sound

can condense out of noise

all on its own.

Just as beauty appears

in a random universe

no matter what.

Measure, measure, cut.

The rise, the run,

the rule of thumb.

The uncanny proportion

of the standard step,

so muscle memory

guides me up

and feet descend themselves.

Well-made stairs,

sturdy, and workman-like.

You only notice this

in a starter house

built by a self-taught man.

Where the stringers are steeply strung

the gaps uneven.

Where the stairs

creak all the way up,

and you stumble and stub

and white-knuckle clutch

the rickety banister,

eyeing your feet

with every step.

Who knew

a simple stairway

was so perfectly tuned

to the human form.

Pleasing the eye,

like the golden measure

of classic art.

As dependable

as fine-grained wood,

clear, and trued

and thoroughly dried.

And as good a fit

as well-crafted shoes;

slipping them on for the first time

as if they've been worn for years.

I had no ideas for a poem. But I did have 3 conditions:  nothing about snow; nothing about weather; and whatever it was, it had to be something small and everyday.

Who knows why an image of a stringer came into my head:  a carpenter in work clothes; a hammer in his hand; the beginning of staircase.

I have an outdoor set of stairs that roughly follows the curve of a slope. My carpenter consulted me about the rise and the run. I had not idea, of course:  I’m not handy, and I can’t build or fix anything. But between my direction and the exigencies of topography, this stairway ended up odd. You can’t negotiate it with any kind of natural gait. And I realized – and my carpenter confirmed this – that there is a reliable rule of thumb in the construction of a standard staircase. And I also realized how I had always taken this for granted, racing up and down stairs all my life by muscle memory, never giving it a thought.

The poem ended up beginning with the hammer and not the stairs. One hammer led to a crew, and then took a slightly philosophical turn. Only then do I finally get my teeth into the staircase, the rule of thumb, the perfect organic form.

Which is a very typical poem for me. It’s about something small and everyday. And it’s about the beauty and wonder that – unless you take your time and look closely -- hide in plain sight.

The title, if you’re aware of the origin, might give pause. Because “rule of thumb” actually comes from old English law. It was the maximum thickness of  the rod with which a man was permitted to beat his wife. Luckily, this connotation is lost on the vast majority of readers! And I like it because it’s very tactile:  it suggest manual labour and handiness. And also because it suggests a kind of quiet practical confidence. This is how my old carpenter (now, sadly, deceased) went about his business. He worked by eye and hand and in his head, almost intuitively. There were no computers or calculators or architectural plans. And, when it comes to actual staircases, there is a rule of thumb (thank you, Google): The rule of thumb for treads and risers is that the sum of each should equal between 16 and 18 inches (40 and 45 cm). So, if your riser is 7 inches (17.8 cm) tall, your tread should be anywhere from 9 to 11 inches (23 to 28 cm) long.