When I was growing up in my parents’ home in Illinois, rainy days often meant climbing these worn stairs to our third floor attic, where we built things with Lincoln Logs and Erector Sets, played Monopoly and checkers, and traded baseball and football cards. Each time I go back to visit, I invariably climb those same stairs, opening the heavy pine door and stepping back into my childhood ….
What I realized this last time back is that my parents’ attic reads like our family history, only in objects rather than words. What to most people would be little more than yard sale junk holds many memories for me, and, mixed in with old blenders, Christmas decorations, and kitchen utensils….
there is always the cherished antique or two, such as my great-grandmother’s spinning wheel, still looking like it could go to work — provided anyone knew how to use it! I didn’t have room for it this trip, but someday I hope I have the opportunity to save and display it.
Until next time,
Take your own trip back in time!
Bruce
