Attics are not as popular in the West, but they are quite customary in older eastern homes. When
they were constructed, the concept of storage units and height restrictions did not exist. Attics are
the bane of KonMari devotees, but they are a treasure
trove for the hoard-minded Yankee (my forefathers and mothers).
My GREAT grandmother had an attic in her Danbury home but
the only thing I really remember about it was the hiding space in the floor,
just big enough for one or two people to fit rather uncomfortably, that
concealed the slaves as they moved along the underground railroad so long ago.
My GRANDMOTHER’s house in CT had the benefit of not one, but
two attics! Of course her house was built
in the 1800’s so attics were standard building procedure in the day. These were not garret like spaces, her attics
were spacious and incorporated triangular rooflines, so you could stand upright
in some areas, but had to squat as you explored the crevices, which I did on a
regular basis during my summer visits. Whoever
owns it now has doubtless converted the space into some sort of groovy teenage
bedroom a la Greg Brady.
The windows were made of heavy blown glass, so when you
peered out, the real world appeared wavy and dream like. The windowsills were littered with dead
wasps, who after flying for days around the stacks of vintage possessions, met
their unfortunate demise as they attempted to enter the blurry world through
the panes. The attic held an exclusive scent comprised of dust, decaying paper,
trapped heat, and aged clothing. The stairs were creaky and steep, lit only by
a lone bulb attached to a string. The
floors were constructed of wide plank dark wood, with telltale gaps owing to
their natural reaction to the eastern climate changes. Today these would be sold as “reclaimed” for
a premium price.
This heavy world, laden with antiquity, was a place where I
could spend hours, completely lost in thought about mythical characters that died
long before I was conceived. It was like
my very own family history museum, and I explored it as if I were a rabid
archeologist on a dig. Every item I
unearthed represented a mystery waiting to be explored. It was the best when my grandparents accompanied
me on these pioneering ventures because they would tell a story about my
discovery, thus acting as my personal museum guides.
There was the practical section of attic #1, located just
off the kitchen, that was used for storing seasonal items such as: the blue glass Ball jars my grandmother used
to can vegetables and jams from her garden, the old school picnic basket used
to transport pies to holiday occasions, and 1950’s industrial-looking fans with
metal blades, not safe for small hands.
As I progressed to the lesser-used areas of the attic, there
were hanging racks replete with clothing that could trace the lives and careers
of their owners. Military regalia,
nursing attire, Shriner’s hats, graduation caps, and one of my personal
favorites: my GREAT-GREAT-GRANDMOTHER’S wedding dress. Dr. Lois Ophelia Jackson
Knapp was one of the first women doctors in CT and got married at the ripe old
age of 40; and when I was 14 years old I could barely fit in her dress. She
lived to be 89 and my grandmother is named after her.
In Attic #2, which was completely separate from the first
and only accessible via the second floor, I stumbled upon my Grandfather’s
artwork from high school. Back in the
day, even in Hartford public high school, the art education was fairly
extensive. They learned drawing,
painting, pottery, basket weaving, and even a bit of graphic art. I’m shocked by how much they covered on a
public school budget. He was a bit of a
renaissance man – an artist, engineer, WWII pilot, clock maker and horologist,
as well as a musician. He was a man of
many talents, but perhaps master of none.
My mother accuses me of having this trait; it can be traced to my
Grampie’s DNA.
The second attic lacked the semi-organization of the
first. Things were more random and
seemed to have been stored in haste. A
medieval metal bedpan stood alone atop a stack of Reader’s Digest condensed
books. I am unsure why this was
considered a treasured object and can only imagine Marie Condo holding up the
receptacle with gloved hands asking “Does this really bring you joy?” with a
disgusted judgmental look on her wrinkle-free face. As I
methodically continued through the space I encountered my uncle’s drum set, my
grandfather’s trumpet housed in its velvet lined container, rusty horse shoes, creaky
wooden chairs painted farmhouse red, tattered traveling trunks with peeling
textured paper lining the interior, decades of back issues of national
geographic and Yankee magazines next to piles of books – Anne of Green Gables from 1907, yearbooks, and worn arithmetic books
with microscopic type. I pawed through china, crystal, silverware, trophies, diaries,
costume jewelry, and creepy photographs of stoic looking relatives not even my
grandparents could identify.
Sometimes my creative powers would venture to the morbid –
thinking of some far off relative sick and dying in my grandmother’s antique mahogany
bed with the bedpan lurking nearby.
Other times I would picture my grandmother as a young nurse waiting for
my grandfather to return from the war in his handsome flight uniform.
My mother could never comprehend my fascination with the
attic. “That is just old junk,” she
would say, but it provided me with great delight and story-telling
inspiration. My MOTHER also has an attic,
which is only reached by a ladder and sliding panel, and includes treacherous
areas where you could potentially end up falling through the ceiling into the
living room if you weren’t careful. Her
attic shelters artifacts from the 70’s and 80’s, which I don’t find nearly as
engrossing as the gems exhumed from my grandmother’s attic. Examples include my 7th grade plaster
cast from a broken ankle, electric bills from the 70’s, unattractive fake
flowers, Barbie Dolls, Fisher Price people and their corresponding recreational
vehicles.
My grandmother lived in her house for over 40 years, which
is nearly unheard of today. Antiques
were transferred to the next generation; china and silver were inherited, not
purchased. It was a time when recycling
and reusing were just common sense, not a destination for cardboard and wine
bottles manned by grouchy volunteers doing their community service time. My mom spent 23 years in one house and 20 in
another and is currently going through a rather painful multi-home
de-cluttering process before she moves. The
big difference between my ancestors and me is that I move. A lot. And the more you move things around, the more
joyless they become.
I learned a great deal about my family, my history, and my place in
the world during those excursions to the attic.
Maybe I don’t want to know the
truth about my relatives via ancestory.com; I prefer to maintain the vision I forged
of who they were and what characteristics I might have inherited. Was it hellish for my family to go through
all of the collectibles when my grandmother moved out? Maybe.
Is my mom lamenting the fact that she has kept 10 years of Bed Bath and
Beyond coupons? I would hope so. The
riches in my grandmother’s attic provided hours of entertainment and
imagination development during my youth. If my Grammie had been a KonMari follower, I
would have been deprived of this unique experience. And so I ask Marie Condo,
is there a statute of limitations on sparking joy? I
think not.
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| Some Relics I salvaged from the attic |
