The Attic

I was asked recently where my favorite place to go as a child was.  I was instantly transported back to my grandparents’ house and their wonderful attic.  I spent many long summer afternoons in that attic, rummaging through trunks in search of precious (in my mind, at least) treasures I knew I would find.

            Each summer, I would spend a week or two at my grandparents’ house.  It is no wonder I loved going there.  I had the total attention of Grandma and Grandpa all to myself and did not have to compete for that attention with anyone.  There would be wonderful shopping trips into the city where Grandma and I would shop for clothes for me.  I loved spending time with Grandpa in his garden.  What I enjoyed most, however, was climbing up the stairs to their attic to see what I would find that day.

            Their attic was filled with objects gathered over their lifetime, and had many trunks, boxes and containers.  There was one trunk filled with souvenirs from France brought back by Grandma on her many trips there.  There were pictures of Grandma and Grandpa in their younger days.  I found an entire photo album of pictures of Mom and her sister, of cousins and relatives.  The album was an old-fashioned scrap book with black pages and the pictures were held in place with little golden inserts on each corner.  One day, in yet another truck, I found a pair of fur hand warmers which, Grandma later explained, woman would use to keep their hand warms when riding in open sleighs.  I loved the feel of the deep, soft fur and there, in that hot summer attic, I was in a sleigh racing over snow keeping my hands warm.   I came across old passports belonging to my grandparents.  As I held them in my hand, I imagined it was my name on the passport and that I, too, had travelled the world (or at least a good part of it).  I sat on an old rocking chair with the passports in my hand, trying to make out the different names stamped there.  I loved looking through the boxes of postcards my Grandma had collected over the years, mostly from France.  I found notebooks which had belonged to my Mom, the penmanship perfect as was expected from teachers then.  I found many treasures there and my imagination grew with each new discovery.  The items I loved the best, I would take downstairs at suppertime to “show” Grandma, knowing full well she would tell me to keep my cache.  I still have many of those treasures Grandma let me keep and they mean as much to me today as they did back then.

            I loved looking out of the window in the attic.  It looked down on the front yard.  When I heard a car pull in, I would look down from the window and watch the activity below me.  I felt like a queen looking down on her subjects and loved the fact that no one could see me, but I could see them. 

            In a twist of fate, my sister now lives in the same town my grandparents lived in and my grandparents’ old home is within view of my sister’s house.  Each time I visit her, as I drive into her driveway, I look over to the old house and check out the attic window.  It never fails to make me smile as I think of the hours I spent in that wonderful attic and how I watched over my kingdom from that window.  Having a favourite place to remember . . . it's a good thing!