Memories in an Attic

The other day, on going up into the attic (or loft) to put away the Christmas things for another year, I decided that, since I was up there, I might as well see if I could put some order into the piles of assorted objects lying around higgledy-piggledy and growing every year. The main constituents of the mounds of clutter ranged around were clothes, books, magazines, mattresses, black vinyl records, CDs/DVDs, newspapers, school text and exercise books, the inevitable old trunk, a disused water tank, the indispensable outgrown doll's house, as well as old Xmas trees and a variety of other bits and pieces. There was even an old-style school desk, the sort with a lid that lifts up to reveal storage space for your books and things and with a hole in the top right-hand corner where an inkwell used to go. Now they don't make children's school desks like that anymore, do they?

As I stood there, looking around at the sea of clutter, feeling slightly lost and wondering where I should begin, I started thinking of all the years' living that all those articles represented. The items discarded over some 18 years were scattered around the loft, each piece the custodian of a memory, and if they could but speak there would be so much to tell, some of which was doubtless now forgotten. And to think that everything was wanted at some time, had its use, served its purpose, played its role. Now it all lay around in the darkness of the attic unwanted, unused, abandoned. And yet for some reason or other it was not thrown out like a lot of other stuff. It was not seen to be so much junk that should be discarded forever. At least not at the time or since. But now, as I surveyed the clutter, there would have to be some casualties in the general tidying up that I was undertaking. If nothing else, space dictated that there should be.

An attic full of stored objects and bric-a-brac is a storehouse of memories and reminiscences. It is a repository of objects that once were part of one's life but are now consigned to the oblivion of an out-of-the-way corner of the house where they are gradually forgotten. As the years go by and more objects join the ones already stored there, the time-span increases and eventually encompasses a complete lifetime of one or more people. It is a treasure trove of historical artefacts that tell a story, a story of the human lives that were lived out in that house. In many ways, the attic is a sad and forlorn place, the past always is, because it is something that can never be recovered. And it is made all the sadder if some of the stored articles are associated with someone who is no longer with us. They now gain an added force, as 'stand-ins' for the departed person. They may belong to children who have long since left home, a parent or grandparent who has passed on, or a partner who has left us. Each article there tells a story and represents a moment or period in the life of a person who had something to do with the house.

I finally got down to sorting through some bags, plastic sacks and boxes, trying to put things in some order, reduce the number of containers, and discard what was really useless and had no historical or sentimental significance for anyone. It was not easy, I can assure you, and it was not long before I was feeling too tired to go on. There had been some progress but not very much and it was only some time later that I realised I had earned myself a bad back for my pains! Nevertheless, I will have to go up to the loft again some time to sort through more stuff and will have to make the same trip several times over before things are in a satisfactory state. But there's no use rushing it - you just end up making things worse. A little at a time and properly is best.

Objects stored over the years in an attic, loft, cellar, or other place of storage take on greater significance as they grow older and one day assume historical importance in addition to their personal and sentimental significance. Probably the most fascinating objects are those that have outlived the person to whom they used to belong, as now they constitute an invaluable source of information about that person, probably more information than that person would have been willing to disclose were he still alive.

Contemplating the heaps of paraphernalia strewn around an attic brings it home to one that when we leave this world we leave with nothing. Everything but everything is left behind. No matter how earnestly and frenetically we strove during life to acquire and accumulate things, as our possessions no matter how cherished are not part of us, they must all remain behind when we make that final trip to wherever we end up after death. We come into this world with nothing and we leave it with nothing. The attic is a good witness to that and an eloquent testament to the vanity of us human beings who so prize possessions that our whole lives are devoted to their acquisition.

I descended the ladder, folded it up and closed the trapdoor to the attic and to all those memories conjured up by simply contemplating the profusion of objects amassed and stored over many years. I was experiencing emotional overload and needed to rest up with a nice hot cup of tea!