The attic is warm and dark, the air, dry, with the gently musty scent of well-travelled trunks and rolled-up rugs. Within its depths, bins, baskets, and cardboard boxes hold sets of china, stamp collections, vintage clothes, and paintings, the remnants deemed worth saving by five generations of my family. After years of postponement, it is time to purge.
I am my parents’ daughter, the child of an antiques dealer and a collector, and I’ve been raised to value “mint condition, in the box.” Further, I am sentimental, and I treasure the letters, endangered species now, between my grandparents and their parents and children. Substantial vestiges of my own kids’ childhood - baby clothes, toys, Mother’s Day cards, and artwork – occupy any number of bins as well. So, this is not a project of wanton disposal, but a slow perusal of the contents of each container, and a re-connection with those who saved each item in the first place.
It is also a favor to my children, Tucker and Casey. My goal is to cart to the dump and Goodwill stuff they’d never want, consolidate their possessions for later review, and clarify, for myself, what’s up there.
Beyond that, I love attics. I love the quiet, the smell, and the solitude. I love the sense of the past, its challenges resolved, its mementos resting between sheets of tissue. I love the coexistence of seasons, with Easter baskets, fans, witches, and Santas side by side awaiting their turn downstairs. I also love wresting order from chaos, so I’ve looked forward to this sojourn beneath the eaves.
My plan is to start at the back and move forward, attacking each section as ruthlessly as possible while honoring prior owners and mindful of preserving what they might want preserved. I’m particularly eager to examine the contents of a large Victorian steamer trunk.
Because of its sturdy metal body bound with wooden bands and brass studs, I had deemed it impregnable to damp and forays by the mice with whom we reluctantly share our 1782 home. Over the years, I have used it to store newspapers and magazines covering pivotal world events, as well as campaign propaganda from Reagan through Biden. I’m curious as to what I have saved.
It turns out, our mice - undaunted by wood, metal, and brass - at one time moved in. Clearly, they also decided that news of the invasion of Iraq and Trump’s election were best served up shredded and fluffed as a cozy nest. With brave resolve, I tug on blue gloves and scoop that vile mass out and into a black garbage bag. As Dad used to say with more than a trace of sarcasm, “Anything for the children.” Tucker and Casey would’ve taken one look, closed the lid, and trashed the whole thing. I, on the other hand, swab liberally with Lysol, and salvage what I can.
Thankfully, the mice have not molested the parade of plastic bins that hold three generations of childhoods: my mother’s, my kids’, and my own. These are labeled in black Sharpie, and contain Cabbage Patch Kids, Barbies, He-Man figures, Micromachines, Transformers, and Mom’s scrapbooks, wedding dress, and porcelain princess doll. It’s strange how familiar are some of these toys, unseen for over three decades: Tucker was five when he sent Skeletor and He-Man into battle. Casey cuddled her bald and not-so-cute Cabbage Patch Kid, “Baby Salus,” at age four. In a way, it’s hard to believe those little ones abide in my wonderful, thoroughly adult children, and I am grateful for these time-traveling toys and the memories they bear.
Just as Casey and Tucker at age 38 and 41 are composites of all their former selves, so am I. My Barbies and Ginny dolls rest within some of these bins, as do pamphlets, posters, programs, and newsletters from my work years and involvement in conservation and animal rights. A battered picnic basket at the top of the attic stairs contains old photographs, albums, and journals; Lea as she evolved is embarrassingly well-documented.
This is my 50th high school reunion year, and I must write bios for the two schools I attended. Seeking a starting point, I retrieve Journal #1 from the picnic basket and open to my first entry written at 3:30 P.M., April 28, 1971.
Any hope for precocious profundity is quickly squelched as I read my reflections for the two weeks before graduation. My 18-year-old self was obsessed with Broadway shows and frequently quoted lyrics while pining for a boyfriend and panicking at the prospect of the leap to college. She – I – also vacillated, ad infinitum, between agonizing over losing friends and declaring that she - I – would NOT let that happen.
There have been times in my kids’ lives when they were similarly troubled with the insecurities and worries of adolescence and young adulthood. As they’ve grown, succeeded in work, married, and had children, I’ve wished I could’ve assured their young selves, with the certainty of foresight, that all their yearnings would be met. The same goes for Lea of 1971. I wish she’d had the benefit of journals #2 through 45, for husband Dave shows up in ‘72, and college held new friends, a semester in Rome, and academic engagement.
As to the girls I refused to lose touch with, many are still dear friends. And when I log onto the 50th reunion Zoom meetings, my heart fills in re-connecting with those who had drifted away.
