The Murmering Staircase

 

The doorknob was cold; it had absorbed air from the other side which was unheated. I guess that’s not entirely true. In the summer, there was more heat there than anywhere else in the house. I always wished it was a completed space, one to be enjoyed year-round and not just in the autumn or spring when temperatures were moderate, but it was a wish yet to be fulfilled.   

 

I turned the knob and pushed; the door creaked ever so softly with a sound familiar only to those who lived here. I knew the rough, wooden staircase also murmured musically when ascended or descended in a scale that whispered a dusty welcome to the attic. Pushing the door open, I peered up and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit space, brightened only by three bare windows when the sun was shining. 

Twenty years ago, this space was empty except for some leftover belongings sitting in one corner from the previous owner, Thelma. There was an ironing board, an old Christmas tin with remnants of sunflower seeds, a yellow metal tea cart, some assorted pieces of scrap lumber, and a framed print done in gray tones of a cherub resting her angelic cheeks on her hands. I had often wondered why she was left behind with the tattered edges beginning to curl. The attic is large by attic standards and I remember thinking that this would be a great space for the kids to play, just like Mary and Laura Ingalls. I couldn’t imagine that we would ever fill it up. 

Ha ha ha. 

Blacklight Puppet shows make for interesting attic companions!

The Christmas decorations needed a space as did all the suitcases, sleeping bags and camping stuff. Then came the baby paraphernalia that needed to be saved for “the next one” and then “what about grandkids someday?” My crafting, puppet making materials and sewing supplies took over another corner... (how does a fabric stash multiply and then keep multiplying?). An assortment of costumes from the Folk Festival, puppet performances and ballet recitals hung between the exposed rafters, like forgotten characters in a play. As the kids outgrew toys, some of them found a resting space there in yet another alcove. The doll house and Barbie population, the Fisher Price people and dress-up clothes are covered with sheets and make it a little creepy. A few school projects litter the floor: a Pueblo Indian village and a state box showcasing Kentucky, another Indian hut made from bark peeled from the little maple tree out front of the house that still shows the scars, and an outer space planet project. An entire set of Encyclopedia’s with black and red spines hint of a time when research did not even know what www. was. A stack of newspapers from the tornadoes are in a basket. From the light coming in from the window, I see amidst the swirling dust mites, two punch bowls and an odd assortment of dishes that taunt me just a little and I wonder why they are even still here. 

 Oh, I know. I’m sentimental and I save things. Apparently, everything!

I know what I need to do. Every time I venture up into this hallowed haven of memorabilia, I need to remove something. Toss it, give it away, take a picture and scrapbook it. 

But then, I see a pair of little blue winter boots. They were worn by five tiny pairs of feet out to the barn. Their daddy would sit them on the basement stairs and wrestle them onto wiggly toes along with a snowsuit reminiscent of Ralphie in A Christmas Story. These boots have survived many winters and maybe still have a few more in them. 

And over there, balanced above the window on the framework, what’s that? A drawing I did as a teenager and had entered it into the fair, winning a first-place ribbon for my age group. Faded now, but it still has a woody aroma of colored pencils and my bedroom at home. If I close my eyes, I’m in the long barns at the fair, searching the tables covered with student’s artwork. I smell sawdust and popcorn and I feel proud as a spot my picture with a ribbon attached. I want to whoop and cheer, but instead I just tilt my head down a little, shy and a not quite sure how to react, but I can’t contain my smile. 

Ah, memories. That’s what this attic smells like. A little musty and a lot dusty, but still sweetly fragrant of days gone by. The scent of laughter and the fragrance of tears are held here. I think it was what I felt twenty years ago, the first time I opened the door. We have added to that over the years, both figuratively and literally. And I must face the facts that all of this, even the pieces attached to special and very specific memories, has created a space filled with clutter and chaos and it is time to clean out. Not everything, but a lot of this can go. There are other ways to remember, in words and with pictures. And when the space is clear, maybe I’ll figure out how to fulfill a wish, to make it a place to be year-round, a place with space to create, play pretend and tell stories.

I stood, disturbing the dust once more and after narrowly missing smacking my forehead on a rafter, I went back down the creaky stairs and they whispered “see ya later” and I knew they were right. I’m looking forward to this attic project, a time to clean out and a time to remember. Springtime, with its moderate temperatures is around the corner, and this may be the year for some spring housecleaning. 

Love,

 Dianne

P.S.1 Doesn't the title make you feel like reading a Nancy Drew Mystery?

P.S.2 Puppet supplies offer all kinds of entertainment. Like false eyelashes.