Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: TUESDAY, March 3, 1992 TAG: 9203030217
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: E-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: TONY GERMANOTTA LANDMARK NEWS SERVICE
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
Handmade of finely cut wood and exquisite art reproductions, Stave Puzzles have been described as the Rolls Royces of the jigsaw world.
Don't be lulled by the craftsmanship, though. Stave Puzzles are demonic devices, deliberately designed to torture an owner to the edge of sanity. Better yet, across that line and back again in a sadomasochistic straddle that can last months - or even years. The more taxing ones come complete with a bottle of aspirin.
Stave devotees would have no less.
"They know I have a sadistic streak in me," said Steve Richardson, the one-time computer analyst who founded and heads the Vermont-based company. "But they also have a masochistic streak in them, so the more I raise hell with them, the happier they are. They feel they've gotten their money's worth."
By now, the uninitiated are probably asking, "How hard can a jigsaw puzzle really be?"
Richardson chuckles. Eight years after starting his company, he discovered a way to make a puzzle as tough as he wants. He's been told the process is so unique it could be patented. But Richardson refuses to file the paperwork. That might give his customers a clue. And in the puzzle business, it's a constant battle to stay ahead of ingenious assemblers.
What he will talk about are the dirty tricks contained in most of his designs. Stave customers must contend with such devilry as phony corners, fake straight edges, pictures without obvious borders and "whammies" - corners made of two or three pieces that seem to belong in the middle of a puzzle.
And then there are the Stave trademarks, such as spaces that beg for a puzzle piece, but which are really meant to float free. They're called dropouts. "That drives 'em nuts," Richardson noted, without remorse.
Some Stave puzzles are all one color. Others have pieces cut along the line between colors, the better to make a customer pull out his hair. Many have extra pieces that don't fit anywhere. A Christmas puzzle, for instance, features three extra pieces that spell out the holiday greeting "Ho, Ho, Ho." A customer who has tried for months to fit them into the Santa scene must find that really funny.
The most difficult have more than one solution. Champ, a sea monster design with 44 pieces, can be put together 44 different ways. Only two will allow the creature to succeed in biting its tail.
Another of his designs, "Three Little Pigs," has 64 different ways of assembling. In 63 of them, the result is just a little off. The parts all fit together, but there's enough "discomfort" to drive customers to call in and beg for confirmation.
Richardson is always ready to dash such dreams.
"I'd tell them to measure the distance between the two wolves," he said. If the space was a hair wrong, he'd order them to tear it up and start again.
That brings us to another point. Stave puzzles don't come with a picture of the finished product. A cryptic name is the puzzler's only clue. One handsome Stave original, called "See the Rain, Dear," features 115 marbleized pieces that fit together into a circle (with fluted edges to make things tougher) encompassing two reindeer around a pine tree. There are empty spaces aplenty, and many look like antlers, the better to confuse a puzzler holding the actual antler pieces.
Stave enthusiasts range from average to royal
So who would subject themselves to such torture and pay between $100 and several thousand for the privilege?
It's an eclectic group ranging from common folk to the scions of America's most famous families and the Queen of England. (She was actually subjected by a subject, and that's about all Richardson will say. "The protocol is you're not supposed to talk about the queen.")
Small Stave puzzles can be had for under $100. The most expensive is a five-section work that is 8 feet long, hand-painted from original art, and its $8,000 price tag put it in the Guiness Book of World Records.
In Richardson's world, though, price and size don't necessarily equal difficulty. Some of the trickiest Staves can be had for under $200. All are cut to order and are personalized with important dates, initials, names or messages at Richardson's Norwich, Vt., showroom. Each also contains a hidden message that, when solved, can be redeemed for a discount on the next purchase.
The most popular Stave offerings are puzzles crafted from family photographs or portraits. Those tend to be put together and then framed, frustrating second-hand puzzle dealers who can't get their paws on many Stave works.
Three people have proposed marriage inside Stave puzzles. Richardson doesn't know of any divorces brought on by the puzzles but has heard tell of tooth-and-nail custody battles over his progeny.
There's even a Stave time-share plan, coordinated by the puzzlemaker himself. Under the plan, six people each buy a puzzle and then swap among themselves every month. No baseless bragging, though. They must furnish a photo to prove they finished the puzzle.
It takes Richardson between six and nine months to teach his employees to cut a puzzle, he said. Some of the techniques are so secret that visitors can't come in while a puzzle is being cut.
Since every piece is an inspiration of dancing sabre saw, replacements can be expensive. If your dog eats a piece, the company charges $50 to duplicate it. And since each puzzle is an original, there is no schematic to follow. Customers must determine the surrounding pieces and send them along as templates.
Creator goes nuts trying to outsmart customes
Richardson entered the custom puzzle business by accident. He had moved during the '60s from New Jersey to New England to join a computer company. When it folded, he and a friend named Dave started making $3 cardboard jigsaws based on crossword puzzles. A customer called, told them the last company that made fancy wooden puzzles had gone out of business and offered $300 if they would do one.
They saw an opening, advertised in The New Yorker, and when the orders piled in, Stave Puzzles - a combination of their first names - was born.
Dave eventually left to make children's puzzles, and now Richardson and his wife, Martha, head the 16-person outfit.
Stave customers are constantly learning Richardson's tricks, pushing him to new frontiers. "It drives me nuts," he said.
So Stave Puzzles have moved into three dimensions and multilayers. He's making one now, at special request, based on a Mobius strip, the one-sided geometrical figure formed by giving a ribbon a half twist and then joining its two ends.
Like a good Szechuan chef, Richardson keeps tabs on just how much agony his customers can take. He steers mediocre assemblers away from the most tortuous selections. Customers can select three levels of difficulty in the size and shape of the puzzle pieces themselves.
And if a customer can scrape up the nerve, Richardson and his staff are available to provide hints - with a generous supply of razzing - or even solutions.
Those arrive in photo form with a bottle of cognac, "like the St. Bernard coming to the rescue . . . if they really want to stoop."
But that's not what gives Richardson pleasure. He'd rather those puzzlers toil away endlessly, muttering his name in a menacing mantra.
"I must be sick," he said. "I love hearing the screams of agony and frustration of the customers."
Still interested in this peculiar kind of agony? Write Stave Puzzles Inc., P.O. Box 329, Norwich, Vt. 05055. Or call (802) 295-5200.
by CNB