Death by hypotenuse

I just completed the first of two staircases. I decided to begin with the one from the basement to the first floor, since any mistakes I made would only be seen by those people we lock downstairs (bad kids, Jehovah’s Witnesses, etc). That was a smart move. While I am very happy with the results, I am glad I will not see them every day of my life the moment I walk in the front door, which is where the other staircase is located. While they are very nice for basement stairs, they are not quite up to snuff for the general living area.
     Stairbuilding begins with a ruler, calculator, pencil, big eraser, and a pad of paper. After you take a few measurements on-site, there are a number of equations you use to figure out your unit rise, unit run, stairwell opening, total rise, total run, carriage length and headroom clearance. Trust me, in 16 years of Catholic schooling my homework was never this hard. Once you have things worked out on paper, you grab a 16 foot 2x12 and lay out your stringer with a framing square. Once all your lines are drawn, you take a measurement from one end to the other, and that should match up with the hypotenuse of the triangle formed by the stair stringer as it sits in the opening, which you figured out previously on paper. Confused? Take a number.
    Lo and behold, my hypotenuse on paper did not match my number from the actual layout. Cursing Pythagoras, I had to re-adjust my layout marks twice more to get ‘close enough’ to the correct measurement for the hypotenuse. When that was finally achieved, I cut the two stringers, wrestled them inside, and began the process of getting them positioned correctly in the stairwell opening. When all was plumb and level, I sat back, called Anne, and we surveyed my handiwork. While surely handsome, a nagging fear we had for the past few months materialized into full fledged terror: where the heck are we going to put the woodstove?
     Let me take you back a bit, to a cluttered office in Walpole, NH, the HQ of First Day Cottage. We were meeting with First Day’s founder and mastermind, David. As we went over floor plans, we weren’t sure where put the woodstove in our open-concept first floor. David unhesitatingly drew it in front of the basement door, sort of in the middle of a major traffic pattern. With the gift of the self-confident, he assured us that the central location would be perfect, not too obtrusive, it would all work out. With the meekness of the overwhelmed, we said OK, and moved on. (note: this is not a knock on David, we love the guy, I just want to illustrate how things on paper do not always work out in real life).
     Returning to present day, Anne and I looked at the staircase, where it would end, where the door would have to go, and the clearance needed for a door, all of which dictated where the wood stove would actually end up. Not so good. Smack in the middle of everything. We had visions of future toddlers stumbling into a 500 degree cast iron stove and knew we needed something different to happen. We discussed stove relocation, which is extremely tricky because the stovepipe needs to exit the roof in a logical spot. We talked of stair reconfiguration. We talked of adopting kids who were already old enough to know not to walk into a red-hot woodstove. Eventually, as darkness descended, I said I’d mess around with the design tomorrow and see if I got lucky. Well, the sun shines on a dog’s ass some days, as the saying goes.
     With the addition of a platform at the bottom of the stairs, cutting off one tread and riser from the stringer, changing the angle, giving up some headroom, and a bit of divine intervention, the staircase somehow worked out. We managed to move it back about 18 inches and change the door orientation, which allowed us to move the stove out of the major traffic pattern and back it up against a wall. When the walls are built, I’ll post a picture which will illustrate this whole deal. But rest well knowing that when you come and visit, and if you’re balance has been compromised by a few too many gin and tonics, the chance of you receiving third-degree burns has been greatly lessened. This is our gift to you. Thank us later. In the meantime, pass the gin.