Beneath the Roof

There was a certain smell in this place. It was a combination of old lace, age-worn books, pitted metal and musty wood. It wasn’t obnoxious ~ in fact, it beckoned. This was the first place I can recall feeling independent from the rest of the family; the first place I ever felt empowered. This place was my attic.

The first thing I recall about the attic in my childhood house is that it was a bit darker than the main living space; just two bare lightbulbs dangled precariously from the rafters - one toward the front of the house and the other toward the rear. This space held all of our things that were dear enough to keep, but were rarely if ever needed. Oh what things there were! It was probably a typical looking attic to millions, but to me, it was all about the family and all about our personal history.

Every time I opened the door and walked up the full set of stairs leading to this wide open sanctuary, my imagination would stir; not only because of all that I played with during my last visit, but also because of what I might discover this time around. Peering into boxes and old dresser drawers was just the greatest fun!

Long, satin evening gloves and velvet, toeless high heeled shoes transformed me instantly into any of the marvelously beautiful movie stars of long, long ago. If I felt giddy, I could be Doris Day. If I was feeling all huggy, I could be Veronica Lake or Rita Hayworth. In my little girl’s eyes, Miss Lake was a huggy type. If I felt sassy, I could even be Marilyn. Dad used to say she was sassy – to me, it meant she was pretty and charming, and sometimes rather cheeky.

Mom had saved many of the old dresses and gowns she wore during the 30s and 40s (this is still my favorite clothing era). She stored them in zippered, plastic garment bags. The bags were yellowed and crackly, but once opened, the clothes were like new. What I wouldn’t do now for some of those vintage gowns, bedecked with sequins and strips of velvet and satin! They were truly glorious dresses. It’s odd that I never really saw them as “old.” They were just way too big for me and I knew if I handled them too much, something might fall off or break. I simply stood back from the bags and admired them for many moments at a time.

There was a section of the attic that was clearly reserved for dad’s old stuff. He too had a garment bag. In it hung his old army uniform and jacket, a handsome suit or two, some expensive looking ties and some old, well-worn hats. But the best of dad’s stuff – the absolute, knock-my-socks-off best, was the day I found his old mandolin and ukulele. There was also a lute, but its strings were long gone.

It thrilled me to sit there on the hard and dusty floor, plinking away to my little heart’s content, and knowing full well that this was an instrument my grandfather had surely played back in his day. Oh I wasn’t making real music back then … or was I?

Moving away from the old dressers, behind the chimney wall, there were two metal cabinets with shelving. The contents of these cabinets transformed me quite quickly into teacher; some days, librarian. Books. Wonderful, wonderful story books lived inside of these cabinets! There were books for all ages, some that I couldn’t even understand as yet. Dick and Jane books, Nancy Drew Mysteries, The Bobbsey Twins, Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn stories, old school text books, brown-paged dictionaries and encyclopedias ~ these books gave me so much pleasure because as I “taught” from them (my dolls and stuffed toys made wonderful students), I also learned from them. Not a whole lot, but more than I would have, had I not played with them.

Nobody bothered me when I went to the attic. It was like a private retreat. I could play up there for hours and sometimes, simply enjoy the view from the front or rear full-sized windows. I remember how unique everything looked outside. It was all about perspective, though I couldn’t figure that out at the time. Everything outside just looked different and new. Cars were smaller, I could almost see the tree tops, and there was absolutely nothing intimidating about grouchy old Mr. Farrigano next door as I looked down on him from up in the attic.

I’m interrupting myself here because I’ve just now recalled something – as I’m typing this. I recall wanting to live there – right there – in our attic! I remember pretending it was “my place.” Christ, I couldn’t have been more than five or six years old, possibly even younger when I first discovered this haven.

There was a good sized blackboard with little pieces of chalk no bigger than my fingernail. I got the most out of those little white chunks – drawing images and pretending to teach math. I’m laughing to myself a little because I even remember hollering at my stuffed toys if they misbehaved during class! That was a direct result of being taught by the nuns in real life ~ I'm sure ~ except I didn’t smack my toys with the blackboard eraser.

It was also in my attic that I first picked up a hairbrush (microphone) and belted out a tune. I knew darned well nobody could hear me two floors below in the main of the house. My little mind placed me on the grandest of stages and while there, I could sing out all the way to the back row without being hushed.

The antique record player I used to spin the 78s (thick yet fragile LPs that were once my father’s) would play out a scratchy tune by Hoagy Carmichael or Glenn Miller, and not knowing the words to these wonderful old songs, I’d simply make some up. My stuffed toys transformed as well – from students to audience – in a heartbeat! And oh how they would applaud me. Mmm, mmm, mm. I must have been pretty good.

As I grew older, I started to bring some loose leaf paper to this sweet asylum. In the cabinet with the books, there was a tray filled with old pens and pencils. (I have inherited my mother’s quirk of saving writing implements – help me!) I’d situate myself in a corner against the chimney wall, randomly pick out a 78 and play it while I wrote. I cannot imagine what I wrote back then. My guess is, it didn’t look much like this stuff – but it always felt so damned good while I was doing it.

It was an awfully sad day when I came home from school to find my parents boxing up much of the old stuff and putting it out to the curb. Oh they held onto things like the instruments, many of the books, and the larger furnishings, but I don’t even like to think about all that got tossed. I was sixteen years old by then, and we were moving.

I miss the old attic. When we moved away from that house, I so much wanted to take it with us. I wondered what place I would go to next, to access that precious sort of uninhibited me time. You know something? As comfy and secure as I feel in our home today, as lovely as it is to have some time to myself and also to share my life with my loved ones, I’m not sure if I ever quite found that sort of sanctuary again.

Oh wait. I believe I just did. It’s within me.


[the photos I carefully selected to use here were Google Images - I just converted them to black and white for effect. Though they closely resemble my old attic, I have no attic photos of my own]