I fondly remember the attic of my childhood. It was my childhood sanctuary and the place where I escaped for hours on end. Its retractable wooden staircase led into a hot, cedar-smelling expanse. The risers dissolved into a sea of plywood boards, and the everyday faded with them. The space, lit by sunlight streaming through a dormer window, was pure magic. Finely made dresses from the 1940s hung on a metal rack. Tiny boxes of Granny’s costume jewelry were inside her dressing table drawers. Inside the heirloom cedar chest was homemade quilts and doilies—keepsakes from Mother’s early life on the Kansas prairie. In one corner was the vintage wooden high chair Granny used when feeding her children—later passing it onto Mother who used it when feeding my brothers and me. And there was a treasure trove of unmarked boxes everywhere. I’d sit on the dusty floor for hours opening each box and poring through its contents. I felt like an archeologist sifting through the archeological sands of my own family, and I took delight in it.
Decades have passed since I sought refuge in the family attic, but recently I had occasion to revisit it. I slowly climbed up the retractable staircase, fumbling my way across the familiar creaky wooden floor once again taking in the magic of the cedar-smelling expanse. I wiped the grime off the dormer window letting the sunlight stream in and glanced around the room. Cobwebs hung off the walls, their owners nowhere to be seen, and dust lay over every surface like dirty snow. Stacked all around me was a maze of discarded toys, rolled-up rugs, dirty paintings, familiar boxes, and a variety of idle suitcases.
Over the course of several hours, I rummaged through the discarded items. Each piece I picked up brought back so many memories of a family long gone. Inside one of the suitcases I found my choo-choo bag, a popular girls’ train purse during the early 1960s originally designed to hold toiletries and small necessities when traveling by train. I opened it remembering how I’d begged Mother to buy it for me.
“No,” she said. “It’s too expensive and certainly not practical.”
My Aunt Betty took pity on me and, much to Mother’s chagrin, bought the bag for me.
“Why did you indulge her?” Mother asked.
“Every woman should have a purse of her own!”
Mother shrugged her shoulders and walked away.
Seeing my choo-choo bag ignited fond memories of carrying it while traveling by train with Mother and Aunt Betty. I carried that bag to school with me well into my teen years, hiding makeup in it hoping Mother wouldn’t discover my secret stash. She eventually did.
There are so many memories in the attic, too many to consume in any one sitting—memories that every once in a while I’ll revisit, for there’s something soulful and gratifying reconnecting with the people gone by, remembering our stories, and the intertwining of our lives.
