By Lorry Myers
The last time my four-year-old grandson visited, he heard me talking about our attic. Ivan’s eyebrows shot up and he glared at his mother like she had been hiding something from him. Ivan had never been in an attic before and had only heard about them in books…none of it good. Still, once Ivan heard we had that space right over our heads, that’s all he talked about.
“Can I go in the attic?” Ivan asked, over and over again, like it was a mysterious wonderland he had to see. “And, Queenie,” (that’s what he calls me for obvious reasons), “what’s in the attic anyway?”
Good question, I thought, one I often ask myself.
When we first moved into this house, the room above the family room called to me like a treasure chest begging to be filled. In the attic I found space for all those things I couldn’t bear to part with but had no place for in my new home. Under the attic eaves I tucked boxes of high school t-shirts, everybody’s letter jacket and my husband’s last military uniform.
Plus, there was plenty of room for more.
Now, after many more years of life, the attic floor is piled with boxes filled with numerous items too numerous to mention. Above my head are boxes full of trophies, trinkets and treasures and truthfully, I’ve lived without them long enough I question why I kept them in the first place. All these years, it was just easy to open that attic door and throw stuff inside and forget about it.
Now, I’ve forgotten what is up there.
Not so many years ago, we remodeled our house and changed the entry to the attic. What used to involve a pull-down rope, now requires a hidden door and a power drill. Since power tools are off limits for me, (that’s another story), that means the attic is off limits for me too. For example: when I want my Christmas decorations down, I have to make an appointment with my husband, the weather has to be perfect and I have to stay on the ground and take what’s handed to me.
I don’t like that very much.
So here was Ivan, who merely batted his eyes at his grandfather and out comes the power drill. Randy maneuvered his grandson up the steps, sat him inside the door of the attic and then climbed up behind him. I could hear the two of them overhead; Ivan asking questions and pointing things out, and Randy telling him everything I want to know. My curious grandson never moved from his spot because I am told in the attic, there is only a small pathway through a mountain of boxes.
Pretty sure, that is an exaggeration.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.