J Fail. Anal. and Preven. (2011) 11:1–2 DOI 10.1007/s11668-010-9408-x
EDITORIAL
Standing at the Top of the Stairs McIntyre R. Louthan
Published online: 23 November 2010 Ó ASM International 2010
Our house, before remodeling, had a spiral stair case that wound down from the den/kitchen/dining room level to a hall on the lower bedroom level. The stair case was anything but fancy, was probably unsafe and was certainly not built to any residential construction code. Our grandchildren’s ages at that time ranged from barely a teenager to barely a toddler but they all loved the stairs. In fact, when we remodeled the house, one, totally ignored, request from virtually every grandchild was to ‘‘be certain to keep the stairs.’’ The steps were two-inch thick boards that were about three inches wide where the board attached to a central pole and were about 12 inches wide where the board joined the wall. The spiral was fairly tight and there were no backs to any of the steps and an open space on one side of the staircase. The open space was more or less a ‘‘hole’’ between the staircase and the nearest wall. Ascending the stairs required entering the hole, grasping the central pole and carefully moving up the steps while rotating in a cork screw fashion. My mother refused to ascend or descend the stairs, a process that could be avoided by going outside and walking through the yard. The door at the top of the stairs was a folding contraption that slid from right to left (if you were descending) and latched with difficulty. When a grandchild became brave enough (or foolish enough), they would climb up the stairs, hoping to transition from the bedroom floor to the den where the television was located and the family frequently assembled, especially at meal time. Going down the stairs was another matter. Often the time between a grandchild learning to
M. R. Louthan (&) Box 623, Radford, VA 24142, USA e-mail:
[email protected]
ascend the stairs and learning to descend the stairs was many months, and unfortunately, learning to operate the latch took longer than learning either the ascending or descending process. I’m convinced that the reason for the time differential between learning to ascend and learning to descend was the open space. The space was to your back if you were climbing the stairs but was directly in front of you, if you were descending. Austin was our first grandchild to learn to climb the stairs, and after he had mastered the ascending process, he would reach the top of the stairs and knock on the door hoping that someone would be available to unlatch the contraption and open the door. One recent evening, as the family was sitting around the dinner table, the conversation drifted to the spiral staircase, and Austin shared an experience he had at the top of the stairs. He climbed to the top, knocked on the door, waited and continued to knock. Still there was no response. No one was available to unlatch the door. Austin waited, knocked and called out, but the door remained latched. He tried to go down the stairs but could not summon the courage necessary to begin the descent. He had arrived at the top, could not open the door and could not find the will to descend the steps. He stood at the top of the stairs for what seemed like half the day, even though it was probably only for a few minutes. The family laughed as Austin talked and he then shared his revelation from that experience: ‘‘Standing at the top of the stairs isn’t any fun when you can’t open the door!’’ As a failure analyst I’m amazed as to how Austin’s story relates to conducting a difficult failure investigation. Conducting the analysis is a lot like ascending a spiral staircase. You take one step at a time and move up the stairs of the investigation toward the floor of knowledge and understanding. Each step offers its own challenge and frequently there is a gap between the steps. That gap could
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have been filled if the resources were available, if time was not so pressing and/or if the analysis had been better organized, the evidence better preserved and more or better photographs taken. However, the analysis moved forward in spite of the gaps because the steps were firm and mounted to the central pole of science and surrounded by the wall of engineering. The analyst weaves through the evidence, gaining confidence with each step until the overwhelming majority of the evidence points toward a specific conclusion. The analyst is now at the top of the stairs and ready to prepare the presentation, write the report and give the deposition. These last three acts document the failure analysis and provide a contribution to society. Documenting the analysis is like knocking on the door. We need to move from the steps of the staircase to floor of the den to stand on solid ground. The door of knowledge and understanding must be opened before solid ground can be reached. Sometimes the analysis has unlocked the latch and the door is easily opened when the top of the stairs is reached. Sometimes the door is latched because the gaps that were ignored on the ascent must be filled, and occasionally, when we turn to fill a gap we find an open space between our stairs and the wall of engineering. How do we behave when a failure analysis we are conducting faces gaps in the supporting science and an opening in the wall of engineering? Basically we have the same choices Austin had. We can confront the open space, descend the stairs, fill
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J Fail. Anal. and Preven. (2011) 11:1–2
the gaps, re-climb the steps and open the door to success, or we can be overcome by the open space and simply wait at the top of the stairs until someone arrives to help. But, as Austin said, ‘‘it’s no fun standing at the top of the stairs when you can’t unlock the door.’’ I hope that as each of us reaches the top of the stairs we find that the door is open. But if the door is closed, I hope we find the maturity to operate the latch and unlock the door. After all, what good is a failure analysis unless it adds to the knowledge base? This cannot happen unless the door is opened and we enter the room to share our experiences.
