When I was growing up I was always petrified to go down to my grandmom’s basement. First of all, the basement door used to open “in” toward the basement. When my mom was a baby she fell down the steps while she was scooting around in her walker. Luckily, during the house remodeling, my dad changed the swing of the door to open “in” toward the kitchen.
Second, there was never a handrail. I am petrified of heights, so the in-swinging door, coupled with the absence of a handrail, was a total trauma for me.
Finally, the old wooden steps have huge gaps in between them. When you look down to step onto the first step the first thing you see is a wide gap. It looks and feels as if you are falling from the kitchen into the basement.
The basement holds lots of treasures: my mom’s basketball hoop is down there, and that’s where all the family history papers were stored over the years. More pictures from down there on the next trip, promise.