the fireworks stairs

I think everyone, to some degree, has "skeletons in their closet"–deep secrets they try to keep hidden away from the scrutiny of others. If you were to pry open the door containing my personal stash of bony shame, one thing to come tumbling out of the over-stuffed space would be the quirkiness of my family home. I am confident there are things about that place even "Ripley" wouldn't "believe."

For decades, the ever-evolving structure kept us equally sheltered and entertained, but any attempt to explain the inexplicable got crammed in a confined space, never to see the light of day. However, since it is no longer a tangible terror, perhaps it is now safe to let one well-guarded secret escape the confines of the dark: the story of the "fireworks stairs."

Over the years 2264 South 2000 East was known by many different names, including: "the compound" or "Fort Platt" because of the wall surrounding it, "the James Bond house" because of its many concealed passageways, and Utah's "Winchester Mystery House" because of the random staircases. People (new naive move-ins to the neighborhood, guys parked in the driveway waiting to pick up one of my sisters for a date, pilots taking aerial photos of the east bench) would often inquire about the unusual turret on top of the house. Usually I would give a truthful, albeit brief answer about the gray-washed structure made of scrap lumber, windows and doors– "aaaa...stairs"–but would always try to change the subject.

During the winter months the stairs provided easy access for shoveling the snow off of the roof–a task my dad seemed obsessed with, and a chore I hated. On the last long nights of summer vacation, when the light lingers, the stairs took me up and away from the street heat below to a peculiarly private place to study. With a clear view of the "H" rock, my high school's mark on the mountain, I would sit on the expansive roof and read books like Voltaire's "Candide," and other assigned reading for the upcoming school year. But mostly, the stairs were made for the month of July.

After gorging myself on holiday watermelon, I would make the singular climb up the awkward stairs with armfuls of pillows to see the light shows choreographed for "normal" families, who sat in the park on yarn-tied picnic quilts. While the prelude of patriotic anthems wafted its way up the hill, over the tree tops, sometimes I would wish to be down there somewhere–somewhere in the mass of Americana chasing someone with a squirtgun, lighting sparklers like a chain-smoker, or shouting "UNO!" in a circle of friends each holding cards and popsicles. I am sure that the phrase "it's lonely at the top" was never conceived for this context, but year after year, sitting alone on the roof, the feeling seemed to fit.

As a consolation for the price of peculiarness, however, I had access to as many sky spectaculars as I could take in. It was a surround-sound, and sight, experience. The booms would echo off of the Wasatch mountain walls, answering back the explosive flashes from Sugarhouse Park, the Salt Lake Country Club, Fort Douglas, Derks Field, and areas of the valley I had never visited. Each show was an encore from the previous production, satisfying the hope for "just one more."

Driving through the old neighborhood last week, I passed by the house. It was sold earlier this year to a very nice (and ambitious) family, and is currently undergoing an extreme makeover. The porches have been removed as well as most of the second story. As a result the "fireworks stairs" can never be scaled again. In the afterglow of Independence Day, when fond recollections of reclining on a manicured lawn next to friends, family and thousands of patriotic park strangers, should arise, I am left with an alternative vivid memory: sitting on tar paper and roofing nails, watching the holiday light show, and descending the narrow passageway (watch your head) of the "fireworks stairs."

And with that melancholy mental picture, a skeleton is set free.