I remember…

I remember treasure hunting in my grandparents’ attic. Shrugging off the creepy feeling the place evoked, I would climb the creaking stairs, dodging empty buckets and hardened string mops and stepping over stacks of yellowed sheet music, to reach that curious upper room.

It had a totally different atmosphere to the rest of the house–either hotter than the rest of the house or colder, depending on the season. The stale air smelled spicy sweet, a musty bouquet of cedar and dust. Regardless of what time of year it was, a veil of dust shrouded the offcast furnishings and old luggage. An army of dead bug carcasses littered the window sills at either end of the room, like POW’s left to rot in murky prisons. The dim light, dark eerie corners and low, sloping ceiling induced vague claustrophobic sensations in the pit of my stomach, which strangely added to the excitement.

In my short childhood, I’d made a couple of treks up to that mysterious shadowy retreat and each time I unearthed something delightful. Once I discovered Mom’s wedding dress encased in a white plastic garment bag. I was entranced. What on earth was a beautiful white gown doing in this dusty place? And more to the point–why hadn’t I been granted playing privileges with this gown? I begged for Mom to let me take it home and try it on. And when I got it home I paraded around in it, veil and all. There are some pictures of me standing in front of the mirror in Mom and Dad’s bedroom, my little pink pyjamas peeking through at the shoulder.

On another attic expedition I discovered a box with curious scrawl on the lid. My mother told me it said: “For Alison” in Gram’s handwriting. I (Alison) had discovered little girl’s equivalent of the Mother Lode. Sometime before she died, she had packed up her cut crystal for me. There was a sugar bowl and creamer and a pedestal candy bowl with a dome lid. The bowl and the lid both had a zigzag edge, like shark teeth, that fit together. None of it was my mother’s taste–she said it was “atrocious” or some other negative word. I liked it simply because I’d found it in the attic with MY name on it.

One time I found a small green suitcase with a pair of pointy pink silk covered stilettos tucked inside, another great find. They were so different to the chunky, square-toed shoes of the seventies. These were so elegant, so refined, like the ones Doris Day wore in the old movies. I tromped around in those shoes for the rest of the day. Finding them reminded me of the tin of costume jewelry in Gram’s bedroom closet. I always loved playing with those things, even though the tin smelled odd, salty and pungent, like unwashed seashells. The tangle of necklaces and clip on earrings revealed shells and seeds, baubles and beads. One special silver chain held a small glass ball which housed a mustard seed. I always asked if I could keep the things I found. Usually Mom said no, probably not wanting the mess in her house (something I completely understand now, but thought was so unfair back then.) She let me keep the suitcase. She told me it was called a “train case,” for a lady’s make-up and toiletries when she travelled. I had that train case for years.

Someone would always warn me about wasps or the filth up in the attic, but I paid no heed. Wasps or no wasps, attics were, in my mind, wonderful places, brimming with curios and laden with treasures just waiting to be discovered. Poppy’s attic was slightly creepy too, which heightened the thrill. What about that spooky closet in the corner…what was behind the door? I’d get dizzy just glancing at its menacing doorknob.