There are times in life when we simply place things somewhere to keep them safe. We might cherish the item and protect it from damage or theft. These special items in need of a special place might be connected to your family in some way and the memory is preserved for another day. For my family that place was the attic of my childhood home.
I would venture into the attic as a young boy to explore each and every cardboard box. There were many and they contained much more than material objects, they contained our family memories. Regardless of the day, our old attic was always hot in summer and comfortably warm in winter, the late afternoon sun would filter through the two windows at the peak of the house. With the hot temperatures and bright afternoon sun the environment always seemed welcoming and beckoned me to visit whenever I took time away from other childhood priorities. The attic also offered me the peace and solitude I wanted to explore independently and without interruption. Each box opened was a new discovery and I always felt connected to the items placed in the boxes so many decades before my own birth by ancestors that I never had the opportunity to meet.
I recall finding an old violin one day and carefully picked it up admiring the beautiful rich grain on the old wood. Upon further investigation I found the faint outline of a name on the back of this old fiddle and was curious to learn more. I left the attic at the end of this particular fall day and asked my father about the old fiddle in the attic. I did not realize it was in the attic until I found it that day. He said the fiddle belonged to his own grandfather and it was left in the house that he grew up in. It was discarded and unwanted so he picked it up one day and brought it home storing it in the attic many years before. He told me about his grandfather’s love of music and that the fiddle was brought to Concord when his grandfather immigrated from Ireland many years ago. My next visit to the attic brought me to the box containing the Irish fiddle, I picked the instrument up with deep respect and my imagination allowed me to hear the sweet music that my great grandfather produced the century before. I examined the name scratched into the back of the fiddle… Martin Spain. This must have meant a lot to my great grandfather as well as my own father… I knew it meant a lot to me. It has been over 50 years since I first discovered the Irish fiddle in the attic and I have kept it all these years. A worthless piece of wood to someone else, a priceless family heirloom to me because this old fiddle meant something to my father too.
As I continued my journeys to the attic throughout my boyhood, I found many more interesting items packed away. There was a fishing creel that belonged to my grandfather. Just an old wicker basket that he placed rainbow trout in each time he went fishing many decades before. There was a thin leather strap so that you could place the basket over your shoulder as you fished the local brooks and streams, the square knot at the end of the leather strap was tied by my grandfather as a young man many years ago. The basket told me about the way my grandfather spent his leisure time when he was not working at the Boston & Maine Railroad, alone in the woods embracing nature. I felt a connection with this man that I never met because I felt we were alike in many ways. His large silver railroad watch was also packed away in the attic, my father told me that my grandfather carried this watch to work on the railroad every day. I was told that one time my grandfather bellowed out his usual “All Aboard” and a wealthy tourist visiting from far away summoned him to his seat on the departing train. The gentleman spoke to my grandfather in a hushed tone requesting that he once again call “All Aboard” in his deep voice. My grandfather looked at his silver railroad watch and made the announcement once again. The stranger placed a ten-dollar gold piece in my grandfather’s hand as he collected train tickets.
I found many old photographs and stared at nameless faces that I resembled. The family that had come before me and departed long before my time. I felt a strong connection to each and every nameless face. I found relics of past wars in my attic and I found bits and pieces of long forgotten hats and garments.
As I reflect on my trips to our family attic, I have come to realize that the most precious item that I ever found were the memories of people I never knew. I came to know the family that came before me and I felt connected to them. They were dressed in military uniforms, railroad clothing and old wool hunting gear. They were pictured in Victorian dresses and suits with their serious faces with just a small hint of a smile sometimes.
I enjoyed my many visits to the attic throughout my childhood. Unfortunately, the road of life sometimes has hills, valleys and detours. Recently I picked up my great grandfathers’ violin and just held it to my chest. The young boy that held this old fiddle so many years ago was now a special memory to me. I still imagined the sweet violin music that my great grandfather played on his old fiddle from Ireland. Some memories are priceless.
