Attic

This week my husband has been working on the space in the cottage that he calls the attic. In the cottage it is where a peak in the roof line goes up and so it really will be a space to store maybe a few sleeping bags and some blankets. In our house we do not have an attic. I wanted one but the design of our home did not allow it. So instead I have a storage room. What I mean when I say I wanted one, is that I loved going into the attic as a child at my grandparents. It was a secret place that grandma only let me go in with her very rarely. In the upstairs back bedroom there was a small little door. A door just right for a little girl with an imagination. That room had shelves and boxes lining it. There were old pictures and toys up there that my father had played with when he was a boy. She would let me hold them and look at them, but never could I take them out of the attic. They were forever banished to that room. Sometimes I would go into that room when grandma wasn't looking, open the door and just stick my head in and look around. I never stepped a foot inside as grandma might call for me and I would not hear her. I didn't want to get in trouble, just look at those toys sitting on the shelves. When they sold the old farmhouse I wondered what happened to those toys? Then at my parents house when I was growing up, we had and attic in our room. My sister and I shared a room. When we were teenagers I wanted my own space so I moved into the attic. I put a mattress in there and slept for a few weeks until my dad said the bats maybe moving in. A few weeks ago my mom had me go through the little door to the attic to get something out of it. Yeah, bat poop all over, but looking around I saw boxes and old toys... memories of long ago. I still love attics. My new attic is not a room but I do hope to put some memories up inside it for someone to find... someday.