Creaks and Squeaks and Things That Don’t Go Bump in the Night.

It’s been awhile since I wrote here. I’ve been working on a Devlin sequel, which is at least a year away. Then, this morning I weaved a serpentine path from the bathroom to my office. And I bet you do or have done exactly the same thing, zigzagging rather than walking a straight line. It had nothing to do with avoiding toys or a dizzy, chocolate hangover.

Here’s my story and my brag about my granddaughter Ruby.

I grew up an Air Force brat, which means a myriad number of things. When my dad was on TDY (temporary duty) or flew long days/night, he came home tired. Really tired. My mom’s duty was to still the brood of kids to let him sleep. Often that meant removing us from the house. If we were home, we existed in a cone of silence that would make Agent 86 proud. Noise meant outbursts.

Even when he wasn’t tired, my dad could flash his temper, a litany of swear words that would rival any sailor or plumber. Avoiding that temper became a key strategy, and living in a smallish house, that was a challenge for any kid. The squawking hardwood floors provided another layer. You could be church-mouse quiet and hit the wrong boards; they would sing your funeral dirge. So, my sibs and I, we all memorized where the hot spots were.

But knowing where not to step is only half the battle. It’s also about the glide. Heavy, plodding feet are out. Keep your feet low to the ground, semi-sliding, even strides. Walk on the balls of your feet, all five toes gripping the floor. Those are the keys. Knowing the floor isn’t enough. You might know where the riptides are, but you better know how to swim out of one.

I learned to stealth from living room to my back bedroom, especially where the path crossed my parent’s threshold. After his retirement and after the divorce, we lived in a noise-free zone, especially late at night. Light on my feet, I moved like Fred Astaire through 1195 Spruce Avenue.

Habits learned are difficult to unlearn. As an adult, I have continued to walk in relative silence. It’s just my gait. Melanie says I walk like an Indian. I can’t begin to count the number of times I have startled her. It’s not like I sneak up on her wearing a clown mask and holding a meat cleaver, but I frighten her nonetheless.

She has also carried on a conversation after I’ve left the room. My bad, as we say in the Cherokee Nation. There’s a pause in the dialogue, so I’m off to the next thing, gone like a breathy vapor on a cold day. And it’s not just her. Last week a guy working on my air conditioner called me a ninja when he had no idea I had entered the room.

What I never knew until a few years ago is that my kids, all three of them, had similarly learned the creaks and crackles of the house where they grew up in Mount Prospect. They all had their reasons. MJ’s motivation was to sneak from his bedroom to scale the kitchen counter and reach the container of chocolate chips for a midnight snack. Gotta love his ingenuity. To this day, he claims he could move from the front door to his old bedroom without a single squeak from the hardwood. Mindy and Molly say they could too. I believe them.

At a recent party, the topic came up and everyone had a story to tell. The basic theme was we all had our reasons to creep through our childhood homes without parental notice. Anger, food, sneaking out (or in), or just being considerate of those still asleep. The reasons varied, but the behavior was the same.

That brings me to my current Texas home. The contrast to past houses is pretty stark. My house now has really good floors, quality hardwood and tile all over. There are a few random spots, notably one as you enter the kitchen and another in the hallway, but those pitfalls are pretty easy to navigate, especially for a ninja like me. You don’t have to be Tom Cruise dodging lasers to move around the bottom floor without notice.

The stairs to the second floor, those are a different breed of cat. I don’t use them much (it’s the Bond’s space), so it’s not an issue to me. I have noticed some squeaking about halfway up. Bottom and top are solid, but that middle section is tricky when I use it so seldomly. I couldn’t tell you exactly where. But Ruby could. And she learned it with no prodding or training.

Rubes has inherited my (and her mom’s) tribal ways. She knows the exact location of the offending stairs and how many stairs. Her approach is poetry in action, like a mime performing on a street corner. Halfway down the stairs, she scales the trimboard and grasps the handrail, parkouring the wall like Spiderman past the barking steps until she reaches safety. Then she resumes her descent as normal, content in her successful, silent journey. I’m confident that wall-walk will stick in her memory.

It seems unlikely I will change my ways. I don’t try to sneak up on anyone. After all these years, that’s the beauty of it. I don’t have to try a silent approach. I just do it.

Just a word of warning. One day you might just turn around and find me standing there. I don’t have an official tribe, but you can call me Walks Like a Feather.

Thanks for reading!

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