A few of my attic treasures
A toy from long ago
A reminder of bygone days
An old relic standing among a spider's laceCherish the past for it is the key to the future
A Time to Remember
Dusty Solace
By Ronnie Powell
Spider webs are more often than not unnerving and fearful to people. Ragged dusty lace suspended from a doorway containing the remnants of flies and other insects. A shriveled up mouse or rat lying in a corner of a room or pasteboard box has dampened many an adventure. There was and still is not much that can discourage me from exploring old attics that for a number of years remained intact in abandoned houses and most of the time the owners did not mind or care who trespassed into them.
One such dwelling sat on the South bank of the Niangua River, secluded in a grove of walnut trees, far from the main road. I discovered it one day while squirrel hunting and sat for awhile observing the place. There was a house, a barn, large open shed where inside sat a buggy and not far from it a cellar. I thought it strange that I could see no one about and after nearly an hour I approached the house and called out. No one answered and again and again I called out, receiving no answer. There was no automobile and only a weed grown trail that led away from the house to the top of a hill. Unwilling to go any closer I sat down by a tree and again closely observed the house. The windows were dirty but I could see ragged curtains hanging inside each window. The lawn was grown up in weeds and the fence around the building was in a ramshackle condition. The front porch steps were covered in dust and two side saddles on the porch were also dust covered.
Convinced no one lived there I decided to go up on the porch and look into the windows. I finally went inside and stood at the door for a time observing the quite house. On the kitchen table sat a plate with food that had dried up. The bed was turned down as if someone had just gotten up, but it was evident that had taken place a long time ago. A long cap lock rifle hung on the wall, dust covered. In one corner of the bedroom I saw a stack of hand made quilts and other articles too numerous to mention. It was at least to me the house appeared abandoned. It was full of treasures, objects that at one time were important to someone. I later talked to a man that owned the house and he said that his mother had died there. He stated that he did not care about the house or its contents. It wasn’t long; perhaps a year later and someone went in and looted the entire house.
One pastime my wife and I enjoyed was frequenting estate auctions. At one particular event lasting nearly a day we waited for the auctioneer to begin at a line of boxes of assorted items often referred to as the final cleanup. Like others we began looking into the boxes, rummaging through them to determine their contents. In one box, small compared to most of them and when lifting the lid I found a top layer of dried grass and laying on it a dead rat, completely withered to nothing more than hide and hair, an unpleasant sight. I gently raised the thick matt of dusty vegetation and saw the box contained several pocket knives and fountain pens. I carefully replaced the top cover, patted it down and walked away.
I continued my probe of the boxes keeping a curious eye on the box containing the rat and saw no one examining its contents after discovering the dead rodent. The winning of a two dollar bid brought the box into my possession.
My childhood memories include Aunt May Gann’s attic, a spacious mysterious place containing many years of accumulated items, a few exceeded a hundred years, which included old letters, a calendar or two and most precious of all a diary written during the Civil War by Great Grandfather Wright. In her later years Aunt May did not go up to the attic often which was evident when climbing the steep narrow steps, whisking aside cobwebs as spiders retreated into the walls. My brothers and I were not allowed to go there but a couple of times over the years. I was always first in line cutting a path through the shroud of webs, followed by my twin and younger brother.
“Do not pilfer,” Aunt May, would warn us, “and be careful not to break anything.”
The attic was in fact a second story of the old house, one large room with two windows on one side. Three walls were lined with boxes, paper sacks and large wooden trunks. Everything lay under a thick cover of dust. Across the center of the room were stacks of clothing, cloth feed sacks, both white and of assorted colors. A few ladder back chairs sat about containing boxes and there was a large drop leaf table containing dishes and other kitchen items.
My first impression upon seeing the room and its contents was amazement and speechless wonder as I began cautiously exploring the boxes and sacks, confronting a spider now and again, or glimpsing the tail of a mouse disappearing from view.
Boxes of books were quickly reviewed including an old leather bound dictionary of which Aunt May gave to me later. Family letters found in a trunk were plentiful some dating back to the Civil War and of course the beloved diary. Vintage ladies hats were a delight, most were elaborate and quite stylish. There were hundreds of Magazines dating back to the turn of the century treasures in their own right chronicling everything from World War One to the deadly flu epidemic of the early years of the 1900’s. Men’s and women’s apparel from the skin out representing the turn of the century were abundant. Carnival and depression glassware stood on the table, along with a couple of large metal boxes containing costume jewelry, including watches and a gold wedding band or two.
The attic was a wondrous place, a time capsule of immense knowledge that would have taken much more time to explore and I went away each time wanting to return.
Several years later after my last visit to the attic, during the first years of my union with Joyce, Aunt May passed way and her estate vulnerable at last to the discretion of family members, (she had no children) gathered at the old home place to clean out the house. Mother was late and arrived to find a huge fire a short distance from the structure destroying heaps of boxes and sacks removed from the attic. Totally involved, the flames were quickly devouring a lifetime of precious memories. Too late, Mother could only weep, running about salvaging only an item or two, including a large Prehistory flint knife I had earlier mentioned to her. The diary and letters were victims of the fire reduced to ashes to be caught in the wind and scattered beyond my reach. Adios
Dusty Solace
By Ronnie Powell
Spider webs are more often than not unnerving and fearful to people. Ragged dusty lace suspended from a doorway containing the remnants of flies and other insects. A shriveled up mouse or rat lying in a corner of a room or pasteboard box has dampened many an adventure. There was and still is not much that can discourage me from exploring old attics that for a number of years remained intact in abandoned houses and most of the time the owners did not mind or care who trespassed into them.
One such dwelling sat on the South bank of the Niangua River, secluded in a grove of walnut trees, far from the main road. I discovered it one day while squirrel hunting and sat for awhile observing the place. There was a house, a barn, large open shed where inside sat a buggy and not far from it a cellar. I thought it strange that I could see no one about and after nearly an hour I approached the house and called out. No one answered and again and again I called out, receiving no answer. There was no automobile and only a weed grown trail that led away from the house to the top of a hill. Unwilling to go any closer I sat down by a tree and again closely observed the house. The windows were dirty but I could see ragged curtains hanging inside each window. The lawn was grown up in weeds and the fence around the building was in a ramshackle condition. The front porch steps were covered in dust and two side saddles on the porch were also dust covered.
Convinced no one lived there I decided to go up on the porch and look into the windows. I finally went inside and stood at the door for a time observing the quite house. On the kitchen table sat a plate with food that had dried up. The bed was turned down as if someone had just gotten up, but it was evident that had taken place a long time ago. A long cap lock rifle hung on the wall, dust covered. In one corner of the bedroom I saw a stack of hand made quilts and other articles too numerous to mention. It was at least to me the house appeared abandoned. It was full of treasures, objects that at one time were important to someone. I later talked to a man that owned the house and he said that his mother had died there. He stated that he did not care about the house or its contents. It wasn’t long; perhaps a year later and someone went in and looted the entire house.
One pastime my wife and I enjoyed was frequenting estate auctions. At one particular event lasting nearly a day we waited for the auctioneer to begin at a line of boxes of assorted items often referred to as the final cleanup. Like others we began looking into the boxes, rummaging through them to determine their contents. In one box, small compared to most of them and when lifting the lid I found a top layer of dried grass and laying on it a dead rat, completely withered to nothing more than hide and hair, an unpleasant sight. I gently raised the thick matt of dusty vegetation and saw the box contained several pocket knives and fountain pens. I carefully replaced the top cover, patted it down and walked away.
I continued my probe of the boxes keeping a curious eye on the box containing the rat and saw no one examining its contents after discovering the dead rodent. The winning of a two dollar bid brought the box into my possession.
My childhood memories include Aunt May Gann’s attic, a spacious mysterious place containing many years of accumulated items, a few exceeded a hundred years, which included old letters, a calendar or two and most precious of all a diary written during the Civil War by Great Grandfather Wright. In her later years Aunt May did not go up to the attic often which was evident when climbing the steep narrow steps, whisking aside cobwebs as spiders retreated into the walls. My brothers and I were not allowed to go there but a couple of times over the years. I was always first in line cutting a path through the shroud of webs, followed by my twin and younger brother.
“Do not pilfer,” Aunt May, would warn us, “and be careful not to break anything.”
The attic was in fact a second story of the old house, one large room with two windows on one side. Three walls were lined with boxes, paper sacks and large wooden trunks. Everything lay under a thick cover of dust. Across the center of the room were stacks of clothing, cloth feed sacks, both white and of assorted colors. A few ladder back chairs sat about containing boxes and there was a large drop leaf table containing dishes and other kitchen items.
My first impression upon seeing the room and its contents was amazement and speechless wonder as I began cautiously exploring the boxes and sacks, confronting a spider now and again, or glimpsing the tail of a mouse disappearing from view.
Boxes of books were quickly reviewed including an old leather bound dictionary of which Aunt May gave to me later. Family letters found in a trunk were plentiful some dating back to the Civil War and of course the beloved diary. Vintage ladies hats were a delight, most were elaborate and quite stylish. There were hundreds of Magazines dating back to the turn of the century treasures in their own right chronicling everything from World War One to the deadly flu epidemic of the early years of the 1900’s. Men’s and women’s apparel from the skin out representing the turn of the century were abundant. Carnival and depression glassware stood on the table, along with a couple of large metal boxes containing costume jewelry, including watches and a gold wedding band or two.
The attic was a wondrous place, a time capsule of immense knowledge that would have taken much more time to explore and I went away each time wanting to return.
Several years later after my last visit to the attic, during the first years of my union with Joyce, Aunt May passed way and her estate vulnerable at last to the discretion of family members, (she had no children) gathered at the old home place to clean out the house. Mother was late and arrived to find a huge fire a short distance from the structure destroying heaps of boxes and sacks removed from the attic. Totally involved, the flames were quickly devouring a lifetime of precious memories. Too late, Mother could only weep, running about salvaging only an item or two, including a large Prehistory flint knife I had earlier mentioned to her. The diary and letters were victims of the fire reduced to ashes to be caught in the wind and scattered beyond my reach. Adios
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