Every home needs an attic, just as every human needs a site in which to store one’s personal memories. From time to time, each storage bin should be re-arranged, tidied up with the expectation that one or two ancient items might be discarded, perhaps to make room for a few new ones. However, it’s very difficult to throw anything away; you never know when something will be useful, once again.
The first real attic in my life was the one in my grandmother’s farmhouse. A narrow staircase led from a spare bedroom on the second floor to that large, open-ceiling space. Being uninsulated from the elements of northern Ohio, it was overly hot and humid during the summer and unbearably cold in December and the beginning months of the year. In spring and autumn, the opened window facing the front road, the only window in this magical hall, provided a welcomed breeze. The hazy glass, further obscured by spider-webs, made it difficult to see any lonesome truck or car rumbling along the dusty road. Given its isolation, this sanctuary made a magnificent hideout in any season.
The attic, taking up the entire third floor, was filled with ancient boxes and trunks stuffed with seldom used but valued treasures, as well as with broken furniture and things to be hauled off to the dump when their presence, once again, became recognized. Old clothes in varying sizes and styles were carefully stored in containers, awaiting the day when some relative might be able to use them once again. Contents of the older trunks could have stocked a costume shop or a backstage prop room.
Tucked between open timbers along the four sides of the attic, were shelves with semi-disintegrating books and magazines. Many had cowboy and adventure stories suitable for a young teenage boy like me. One of my favorites, with a title I can no longer recall, was about a young cowhand who encountered aliens from another planet! It is, indeed, strange what my memory retains from more than seventy-five years ago. I fondly remember how exciting it was to read those books as I sat on the floor near the window with its dead spiders.
Our rental houses in Niles did not have attics, but they did have cellars, which served the same purpose below ground as did a storage space at the top. This was also true for the first homes we had built for us in Maryland and Massachusetts. In fact, basements afforded better storage for out-of-season equipment, such as lawnmowers or sleds, providing the doors leading into them were wide-enough.
We were greatly surprised when we discovered cellars do not exist in flood-prone Houston and were reluctant to have the water heater in the attic. In the houses we owned here, we required space be made in the garage for this equipment. With great hesitation, we conceded the furnace could be located above us, instead of below us. Most of our storage was consigned to a metal shed in the backyard. For items needing to be preserved from southern humidity, we rented an off-site location and had to plan ahead in order to retrieve anything we might need.
A backyard shed or off-site rental unit became mandatory. I learned it is really not possible to use a southern attic for the storage of large things. Furthermore, it’s almost impossible to stand up in one of them. A few boards around the trap door in the ceiling allow for the placement of boxes to be reached while balancing on the retractable ladder leading into the attic, which is often constructed above the garage instead of on top of the house, itself.
Now, in our retirement years in an apartment without either an attic or a cellar, we must rent personal storage locations within our building at Eagle’s Trace. We maintain two of them, one for Christmas decorations and currently unused items such as an aluminum crutch, and a second unit for suitcases and old wall-hangings. We could probably get rid of the suitcases, since we no longer plan to undertake travel that would require their use. An autographed poster of Dr. Michel E. DeBakey, which once hung in my office, along with other pictures we no long have room to exhibit, should probably be given away or sold. I often wonder what an abstract painting of a native American riding a horse might bring on Antique Road Show, since it was created by a young indigenous American who died in a barroom brawl. Given a superstitious nature, I hesitate to get rid of the aluminum crutch. Whenever I’ve given up anything because I no longer needed it, I have had a requirement for it within the next few days after its disposal.
In addition to the superstitious consideration regarding the disposal of unused items, there is the problem of deciding whether the attic possession is an antique which should be retained or mere junk which should be eliminated. Does that old whachamacallit have any monetary or sentimental value? Will I regret not having access to something that becomes essential even though it has been unseen and unused for several decades? Can the space it now occupies be more appropriately utilized by another doodad I now find is on longer mandatory for my pleasure?
Perhaps the same questions can be raised about those images I currently retain in my memory. On the other hand, I may have more control regarding the physical retention or removal of possessions in my storage attic than I do in my intellectual and emotional baggage. It may be easier to control the location of boxes in my basement than it is of synapses in my brain. It remains difficult to determine the monetary or emotional value of items in either storage location.
What is the difference between a precious antique to be preserved with honor and a bit of junk to be discarded? In addition to this evaluation, there is a determination which matters even more: is the choice either voluntary or involuntary. I must be content, for the moment, that my choosing is still possible. There may well be a time when the antiques found in my attics will no longer belong to me but will become trifles to be discarded by others or by my own forgetful mind.