The Dead Guy in the Attic

This is hereditary, and I am sorry.  I think you've grown out of it, for the most part me too; at least I handle it differently than history would tell.  For many years I was frightened of going down to do laundry in the basement and would make the dog go with me.  If the dog was uninterested, I would drag a cat along, as if a meow would scare away any heebie jeebies; three quarters of the time either species would be totally bored and hightail it back up the rickety wooden stairs that were open at the back so that your ankle could be grabbed by the, by the....by the unknown shiver that ran up my grown adult spine.  Yes, I believe in ghosts.  Yes, I will tell why someday.

Of course, Brian grew up with his flibbertygibbet mother blasting through the basement door, clutching the laundry basket and trying to breathe normally so as to not alarm the boy.    For some reason the attic was not as gruesome, maybe because the intense summer heat would kill all the spiders, but there was still a tension, a quick glance around to see anything amiss.  It was our little grey cat Fiona's favorite place, and she knew how to stick her head out of the eaves and grab a sparrow that had built a nest in the gutter.

Case in point, we were sitting on the couch watching television when the indoor cat ran through the indoor living room with a bird in her mouth.  A living bird.  Where the hell did that cat get a bird?  C'mere, you.  The bird was indeed alive and not much hurt, but the only way I could get her to release the poor thing was to stick the both of them under the cold faucet of the bathtub.  Fiona bulleted, angry at being robbed of her prize, and the bird was stunned at the deliverance by flume.  It was too scared for me to dry it off, so once I opened the back door, it took off in a loop de loop trajectory, straightened out, and headed for the neighbor's tree.

But if Bri wanted something from the attic, he would ask me to get it, and I didn't blame him, it was completely understandable and we had finally gotten him to the realization that there were No Crocodiles under his bed at night.  One step at a time.

I'm not sure who came up with it, but it was decided that maybe the reason the attic contained an air of menace was that perhaps some guy got himself shot up there.  The house was one hundred eighteen years old, and I still have the copper slug I dug out of one of the doors, what other human problems had taken place within the stone walls?  Dead guy in the attic, said son Brian.  Mom, I don't want to go up there.  Would you get my Castle Greyskull, please?

As I said, life was tough enough without bodies in the attic waiting for you to view their shadowed remains.  But how could the dead guy in the attic become a friendly, non-threatening entity?  Christmas!  Sure, Christmas, a time of cheer and presents and sweets and Santas!  On one of the gift tags for Bri, I wrote "To Brian, with Love.  From the Dead Guy in the Attic" with a happy little doodle of a skull with cartoon hearts floating above it.

This was great, who else would give my son a gift?  Tags were made from the dog, the cats, Darth Vader, his bicycle, the peas he hated to eat, the Nintendo, the house, Godzilla, and all the Japanese moviemakers who made those monster films.  You have to see Monster Island.  Everybody is there.  It began a tradition, and he has kept the tags from through the years.

Now he's in DC, and more likely than not, I don't see him during the Christmas season; that's okay, the tags still continue, he just gets gifts mailed or picks things up the next time he's in town.  It's handier for all if he and Dana come up in a rental car; he was once upgraded to a canary yellow Mercedes Benz sports car.  It was awesome.

This year, he sent me several fascinating books and a terrific photographer's set up kit with lights, a tent, and other things that will allow me to take decent photos of my artwork.  On the inner receipt, there were messages; "Merry Christmas, I think you'll like this,"  "Don't let this book freak you out about any of the trips I take; I know not to do what she (the author) does," and then there was the heart-tugger.  "From the Dead Guy in the Attic, with Love."  I'm blinking back tears.

Memories tumbled out and melded into a scene of a young boy, learning to go up the stairs to the attic without fear, knowing that all he would find would be a part of his home, a part of his life.  A part of mine.

The cold is snapping crisp, and the sky is clear to the stars; there is no cloud ceiling to trap the city heat.    Sparrows cluster in pines and hedges to create a mini biome of warmth; squirrels semi-hibernate, packed together into a big squirrel ball, appearing outside only when necessary.  The long nights of winter will be illuminated tomorrow night by the new moon as this year turns into the next; there will be noise and clatter at midnight with fireworks and factory whistles.  Sleep well and reflect on how far you've come, how many stairs you have climbed.  You've done well.  I am proud of you.  Good, peaceful night.