Cleat

The plank that ran up to the apple loft had gone slick with the autumn damp, and that morning a boot had skidded on it and nearly spilled a full basket. Nyra meant to cleat the board before anyone came down it in a hurry and fell. She set the girl to hold the plank steady on the bench while she measured out thin strips of oak to nail across its width.

“Why not plane the board smoother so it would not catch so much of the wet?” the girl asked. “A smooth board is the very thing that slips,” Nyra said. “These strips are cleats, and I fix them crosswise so the foot has a lip to press against on the climb. A ramp wants to be rough where a table wants to be smooth, and you fit the board to the use it is put to.”

“How far apart should the cleats sit?” the girl asked. “A stride apart, near enough that each step finds one,” Nyra answered. “Too close and you trip on them, too far and the foot slides between. The right spacing is a thing you pace out with your own legs, not a number I can hand you whole.”

The girl wished to keep the way of it, and Nyra let her set the number of the cleats and the span between them in the margin. A book gathers what can be set down in a line and counted, and leaves the rest to the one who was there. The count of the cleats can travel to the next maker, she said, but the feel of a safe stride on a wet ramp is a thing the legs learn and the page could not carry.

When the cleats were nailed and the plank set back in its place, the girl walked up it and felt the lip of each strip catch her foot in turn. The book keeps the measure of the cleat, and you keep the footing of it.