My great-grandfather was a stair builder. He lived to 103, and although I never met him, the fact that he was a stair builder tells me a lot about him. Stair building, you see, is actually an extremely specialized art, and it takes real skill to build stairs well. I’m not just talking about the obvious issues, like building well-supported stairs that won’t creak. You also have to build stairs with the right rise and width, and you have to be able to make tiny adjustments, because being off by a centimeter can throw the whole feel off. You have to build stairs that will fit into a room without shouting, stairs that will serve their intended function for a lifetime.

His name was Kuznetsov; he came over from Russia, and like many immigrants, he turned into a “Smith” at Ellis Island, despite the long history of Kuznetsovs in Russia. He fell in love with a Basque woman who lived through the San Francisco earthquake in 1906 and died in childbirth not long after, but this story isn’t about her; it’s about my great-grandfather and my father, who worked for him one summer.

My great-grandfather’s stairs were famous. Sometimes, he got called in to fix a job a contractor or builder had messed up, and sometimes, he started from scratch on a project, called in specially. He always took his time on projects, never allowing himself to be hurried, and the summer my father worked with him, they started with a spiral staircase; one of the ultimate challenges in stair making.

First, they went to the site, and my great-grandfather smoked a cigar while he explored the whole room, sometimes standing still for moments at a time, and sometimes leaning down to listen to the floorboards. Every now and then, he scribbled a Cyrillic note or two on the back on an envelope, but mostly he just stood there. My father asked him what he was doing, and he said:

“Shh. Listen,” so they did.

Two days later, they arrived back at the house with a toolbox, after the lumber had been delivered. My grandfather rolled a utility spool into the room and he set up a chessboard on it, along with a bottle of vodka and two glasses. They started the framing, getting most of the framing done that day, with a stop for rye and pickle sandwiches and vodka around noon.

The next day, they arrived early in the morning again, and my great-grandfather made the opening move on the chessboard, and poured two glasses of vodka. My father made his move, and they drank their glasses, and then they started on the staircase again. Every time they finished a stair, they would move on the chessboard, and sometimes drink a glass of vodka.

My father, unaccustomed to these working conditions, began flagging by one, when my great-grandfather went out and returned with two hot pastrami sandwiches under his arm. The two ate their sandwiches, studiously ignoring the chessboard and the stairs. My great-grandfather didn’t like to talk while he ate. He liked to focus on the task at hand, so the room settled into companionable silence, until the homeowner came in, and asked what they were doing.

“Eating lunch,” said my great-grandfather.

“But shouldn’t you be working on the stairs?”

“No,” he said, “I think we should be working on lunch.”

“When will the stairs be done,” said the homeowner.

My great-grandfather paused for a moment, studying the room, the stairs, and my father.

“When the chess game is over,” he said, and he turned back to his sandwich, considering the conversation over. The homeowner blustered about for awhile, by my father followed my great-grandfather’s lead, and said nothing, and finally the homeowner left.

Three days later,  my father was in checkmate, and the stairs were done.