Navigating the “Death Stairs” at My Mom’s House: A Throwback to Yankee Frugality

Ah, the “Death Stairs”—a name given not out of affection, but out of sheer survival instinct. These treacherous steps lead down to what was once my bedroom in my mom’s house, and while they’ve seen many years of careful (and not-so-careful) descents, they remain almost exactly as they were in the 1920s. They’re steep, narrow, and dangerously slick, with each step as worn and unforgiving as the New England winters.

These stairs are an icon of Yankee frugality at its finest. My mom, true to her roots, insists they’re perfectly fine as they are, despite their alarming angle and questionable grip. Any time I bring up the idea of replacing or updating them for safety’s sake, she waves me off with, “Why would I do that? They work just fine!” To her, practicality trumps all—if they haven’t given out yet, they’re not going anywhere.

These stairs have character, though, I’ll give them that. The worn wood, scuffed from countless trips up and down, and the original structure give them a certain rustic charm that modern replacements would surely lack. I remember cautiously taking each step, gripping the side for balance, trying to avoid slipping on the smooth patches. Back then, my room at the bottom of these stairs was my sanctuary. Somehow, surviving the trip down became part of the routine, like a rite of passage.

While I may have graduated to safer, more modern staircases since, these rickety steps will always have a place in my memory. And as long as my mom’s around, they’ll be there, creaking and waiting for their next victim—because to her, they’re not a hazard, just part of the house’s charm. Yankee frugality, in its truest (and most nerve-wracking) form.