It was cold, but it wasn't raining.  He woke to the sound of a screaming engine. Then, he heard a crash.  It was 1 a.m.  Outside, an MGB sports car had smashed into the corner of his house.  He stood in the dark, bewildered. No one was around.

          "This is the excitement of living close to the center of things," he jokes from inside his office at 437 East 11th Ave., just blocks away from the University of Oregon and downtown Eugene.  Golden letters on the front of the building read 'Architect Jonathan Stafford, AIA.'  Stafford has lived and worked in this house for the past quarter-century.

          What goes on inside is just as exciting as the outside.  Here in Stafford's drafting room, it looks as though a storm has just passed through.  Stacks of papers fill each desk, some reaching over two feet high.  At the bottom of a sea of magazines, a Eugene Weekly dated August 17, 2006, sticks halfway out.  Dusty models, some still unfinished, line the shelves and cabinets in the crowded room.  A cup of tea sits next to the computer in the only space free of clutter.  Nearby, a white ceramic teapot rests atop a pile of padded envelopes.  The sun peers past the windows.  Overhead, only two of eight ceiling lights are lit.  The hum of the bulbs mixes with the bustle outside on 11th Ave.  A lady's voice comes from the radio, talking of Tibetan protests, LSD and Saddam Hussein.  In the alley, moss creeps along tree branches, creating a sense of peace amidst the madness.

          "If I didn't have so much work I wouldn't work so much," says Stafford, sitting at his drawing table.  His remarks are often filled with wit.  As he looks down at his papers with eyebrows slightly raised -- a habit that has formed a few wrinkles on his forehead -- Stafford's focus becomes meditative.  With a ruler-like scale that converts fractions of an inch to feet, he measures one of his drawings to make structural calculations.  The project, an elliptical soffit (the underside of a constructed element) to be hung above the Valley River Center food court, is being constructed tonight.  Stafford's calculations will keep the structure from falling down -- a serious threat to shoppers' safety.  This is one of many projects he has already worked on today.

          The phone rings.  Stafford, now sitting at his computer, gets up and shuffles over to pick up the receiver.  At first his voice is business-like.  He discusses tomorrow's meeting for the Mt. Pisgah Arboretum Board of Directors, of which he's president.  Quickly, the conversation turns casual.  Standing in the middle of the small room, Stafford puts one hand in his pocket and looks out the window.  He glances at some papers, shares a few friendly words, laughs and then hangs up.

          Stafford's family relationship with the city of Eugene and the university may be result of coincidence.  "There's a story about my great grandfather, John Straub," Stafford says, "and I hope it's true."

          More than a century ago, Straub, a classics scholar, was racing to catch a steam boat to get to an interview at a school in St. John's  Before he could reach the boat, a pothole caught and broke his foot.  Stranded in Portland, Straub decided to teach night school.  Judge Matthew Deady noticed the posters Straub put up and told him (in Stafford's words), "Son, if you can teach all that, we need you at the university."

          Fortune had broken Straub's foot and, at the same time, put it in the door of opportunity.

          Back in front of his cream-colored PC -- a signature style of early desktop computers -- he clicks the mouse and strikes the keyboard deliberately.  It has taken him just 20 minutes to transform an attic into a master bedroom complete with a walk-through closet that leads to a bathroom -- a feat that would amaze any onlooker.  He pours another cup of tea as the voice on the radio speaks of three Iraqi teenagers who learned English by listening to Britney Spears songs.  Stafford chuckles and continues his work on the computer. 

          "In the old days, you ended up with drawings you invested in [with] sweat and tears," he says.  The computer monitor displays an arrangement of lines that form a house plan.

          "Technology has changed the relationship between architect and drawing -- something young architects might not understand."

          Eager to prove his point, Stafford pulls out an old blueprint dated September 1935 from under his desk.  Thin white lines over a deep blue background show the grandstands of Hayward Field.  "I should probably get these back to the UO," he says.

          Next, he gets out his father's and his own work to compare past methods of using photo-sensitive paper and today's use of Xerox machines and inkjet printers.  The drawings offer a glimpse into the mind of each architect.  Stafford rolls them up and puts them safely back in place. 

          After finishing the attic-turned-bedroom, Stafford moves back to his drawing table.  The sun has drifted closer to the horizon, making the room feel lazy in the late afternoon.  His next project is more frustrating than the others -- the client's demands are irrational and confusing.

          "Any design problem needs more time than there is in the universe," says Stafford.  He rests his elbow on the table and puts his hand to his eyelids. "Tricky little problem," he mutters.

          With a roll of sketch paper stretched over a plan of the client's house, Stafford organizes ideas in his head, searching for a solution.  He begins to draw with his pencil and erases unwanted marks.  Thick lines start to form walls, a bathtub appears and closet doors hide a laundry machine from view.  He has found a solution.

          "There's a thousand other things I should be working on," he says, deciding what to do next.  "It depends on who's screaming the loudest."

          At front door, voices fill the house with shouts of joy.  The architect rises from the table.  Two of his grandchildren have arrived (his other two live in Portland).  He walks through the office and past the front door, his mind still set on the unfinished work. 

          Outside the air is cold.  The children have already gone inside with their grandmother, although the stream of cars moving down the avenue has yet to cease.  Stafford locks the gate of the fence his father built years ago to keep homeless people from sleeping on the porch (although they still slumber under the magnolia tree nearby).

          He turns back toward the house, opens the front door and goes in.  The day's work is done -- for now, at least.