Try as I might, I cannot recall a time when I walked up the stairs in our house. In any of our houses, in fact. It just isn't how I approach those stairs. Usually, and without giving it a thought I run up the stairs, unless my arms are heavily burdened with something I'm carrying upstairs. Then my pace is definitely more of a walk-upstairs affair. If I'm carrying easy-to-bear laundry, on the other hand, I'll still leap up the stairs.

Leap, as in whatever a 77-year-old in fairly good physical shape can muster. I've little doubt that over the years my 'leaping' and 'running' abilities have considerably diminished. I was never much of a runner to begin with. And I don't contemplate having to negotiate a long flight of stairs in a commercial building, for example, with great happy anticipation.

I can remember having to ascend and descend very long, winding staircases to approach some notable feature of nature, like a series of cascades, or a waterfall so popular that staircases were actually built to accommodate peoples' ability to witness them at close range. Even decades ago such an ascent and descent were arduous to me.

But the staircase in our home? No problem, none whatever. Usually, that is. There are occasions when I'll feel suddenly chastened by my body having run up and then down again in a hurry to accomplish something. Will I slow down? Not until and unless I have to.

I always seem to be in a hurry. There's always so much to be done. And if there's nothing that requires doing, there's pleasure in running the stairs, and I take advantage of it.