Thirteen years ago, our real estate agent, Bob, opened the door of a blue-gray house built in 1979. I didn’t expect much, though my first impression was generally positive—I liked the big trees and the country, cottage-y style of the front porch. As we crossed the threshold, the inside seemed spacious because the owners had already moved and left the rooms empty.
But the first thing that caught my eye was the newel post.”It looks so worn,” I said, running my hand around the knob,
imagining kids swinging around each time they hit the last step. They must hang onto the knob and swoosh around “Singing-in-the-Rain”-style as they turn down the hallway, sliding their palms against the wood, wearing off a little stain each time.
“It rubs off from use,” Bob said.
“Can it be renewed?” I asked. “Can we re-stain it or something?”
“You can,” Bob said, “but I don’t think you’d want to. It adds character. Shows it was lived in.”
“Lived in and loved.” I nodded.
“Exactly,” Bob agreed.
He pointed out other features in the entry that he thought were notable and walked us through the upstairs and main floor, but I kept thinking about that worn newel post. When we came downstairs again, I slipped my hand around it again and could feel how smooth that curved wood felt against my palm. And then I remembered the scene at the end of “It’s a Wonderful Life,” when George Bailey realizes how much he wants to return to his imperfect life filled with family and friends. As he rushes upstairs to see his beloved Zuzu, the wobbly newel post knob pops off in his hand, but this time instead of being frustrated he kisses it as he sets it in place.
Suddenly I loved the worn knob for being worn.
And we bought the house.
For 13 years we’ve lived in this house, running up and down the stairs, swooshing around that newel post, running our palms around the knob every single time.
But we’ve talked about fixing up the stairs. Although they are structurally sound, they have several issues. We’ve lived with them in spite of those issues, wondering what to do.
For the past year, we’ve gotten more serious about it, prioritizing the work and discussing whether to sand down the old stair treads or replace them with new. Finally, just a few weeks ago, we took the plunge: We bought new materials and hired our friend to do the work.He started this past week and made progress quickly.
Before long he had to head home to get a jigsaw for the bottom four steps. When he left, I returned to my laptop in the kitchen. He came back with his saw and called to me from the stairs. I couldn’t quite hear him.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I’m taking this out!” he announced.
I walked down the hall and saw him pointing to the short section of handrail, spindles, and newel post. “Oh! It’s coming down!” I said. “Wow, I guess that’s really final.”
“Yep. I’ll cut it here and here,” he explained, pointing to the spots where the rail met the wall and newel post.
I nodded. “Sounds good!” I turned to go when the worn knob caught my eye. “Oh!” I exclaimed. “The knob!”
“Yep, that’s next. It goes too.”
“Ohhhh…” I sighed. “The knob….” I reached out and ran my fingers around the smooth, worn spot. “I bought this house in part because of this knob right here.” I told him about picturing kids swooshing around and reminded him of the scene from “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I bent over and kissed the knob. And when I kissed it, I almost cried. I thought of our own kids running their hands around it, how they were so little when we moved in and now our oldest will be turning 18. I wanted to freeze time. I wanted to keep the newel post. The knob. The memories.
But I couldn’t keep it. It had to go, or else he couldn’t replace the bottom four stair treads.
He saw me getting sentimental and offered, “I can cut it here for you, if you want.” He made a motion with his finger to show where he could slice off the top just below the knob.
“Can you cut it a little lower, so it’ll have a little square stand?”
“Sure.”
“But I can’t watch,” I admitted. So I pointed once more, “right there,” and then scurried to the kitchen to wait. First he sawed off the railing. He came through the kitchen holding it in one piece, the spindles still attached and dangling like the legs of a caterpillar marionette. I ran to open the door to the garage where he could lean it against some other old wood.
“The newel’s next,” he said. “Think you can handle it?”
“If you can save the knob, I’ll be okay.”
“I’ll save the knob.”
He disappeared while I sat down at the computer trying to distract myself. I heard the saw rev up. A few minutes later he walked back in.
“Here’s your knob.” He plunked it on the kitchen counter.
My heart swelled. “The knob!” I picked it up and turned it around in my hand. “I love it!”
“Is that what you wanted?”
“It’s perfect! Thank you so much!”
He grinned big and went back to work sawing and prying out the bottom half of the newel. While he was hard at work, I gazed at my wonderful old knob, picking it up and turning it around to look at it from various angles.
I left it on the counter all day and touched it now and then. And once, when no one was looking, I picked it up and kissed it.
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Ann,
The knob is beautiful. Isn’t it lovely, how we can concentrate so many precious memories into objects? I’m wondering if there’s some formula for memories/cubic inch of beloved pieces like that.
It’s so wonderful that you can hire a friend with such a gentle heart to renew your stairs. That’s a big gift, there.
Sheila, you are so good at seeing (and encouraging)…what a rich way to go through life!
This is about my favorite story ever! Such a small image to carry such big emotion.
Megan, my goodness, thanks for taking time to comment in the midst of your busy days, and for encouraging me.
We’ve talked many times, Ann, about writing from these small images, and letting it tell the bigger story. You’ve done that exquisitely. Brilliant, my friend.
And I love what this did to my heart today.
Thank you for your wonderful words, Jennifer. You are a gift.
My childhood was spent in an old farm house , but there were so many things to cherish the memories just resurfaced with your writing. Those walls could tell so many stories of single beds with snuggles between my folks when toothaches kept me a wake, and floor registers that you could look down to see the lower level guests when you should have been asleep. Door knobs there were white porcelian or brass. Wish for one of those many items that are so clear in my mind. I wonder now what my children remember of their childhood home. Sweet writing. You are a blessing.
What a delight–I can see the bed and the door knobs and the registers-as-peep-holes! Thank you for sharing that, and for stopping by!
Ann, I’m sitting here on a sunny Sunday afternoon, tears welling up in my eyes because Jennifer Lee made me read this. smile……
oh, it was beautiful. I’ll have to think on this. What is around my house (20 years that we’ve been here) that would hold those kind of memories? Yes, I will have to think on this.
Jody, I am so honored you stopped by and delighted to meet you! I wonder what you will find when you look at your space with those lenses?
Oh, how I wish your friend could have saved the knob to go with your new stairs. I suppose that is progress. At least is was preserved to keep and display.
Hazel, the knob is going to sit on a bookshelf as a bookend in a place of honor. The newel is all one piece, probably turned on a lathe, all the way to the topper-knob, so there’s not an easy way to replace. Maybe with dowels and whatnot. But I’m happy. I have it. I’ll display it. And the new one will look fresh and nice–and we’ll start swooshing around it, making a new mark of love and life. 🙂
Oh, your post brought tears to my eyes! I love that scene from It’s a Wonderful Life and I could almost feel that soft worn knob and all its memories.
Donna
anotherbattlewon.blogspot.com
Thank you for joining me here, Donna, and taking time to leave a note. To think that we could connect over a newel post knob!
This is so, so wonderful, Ann. Pieces of life that tell stories about who we are – those are the things that breathe life into us. Thank you for breathing my way tonight. Revives the soul, friend. Yes, it surely does.
I love it when you drop by, Diana. You are always a minister of words, encouraging and pointing out the beauty, the soul-level activity, the gift.
That is truly a beautiful story!
This made me misty. I’ve been wanting to come over and read it ever since I saw your link being shared on FB. I am so sentimental like this, I have a rock person I made when i was little sitting in my closet. Those things are valuable because of the memories they hold. Beautiful.