The old attic

It's funny how certain things can transport our minds back to a memory of earlier days. The smell of a wood-fire instantly places me in the attic of my grandmother's old clap-board farm-house.  A house that stood only metres from where we now call 'home'.

Granny's house was a two-story wood-frame; painted a light grey with an olive green trim. I remember ever detail of this old house. In the attic there was a wooden chest that held many black and white photos of our ancestors. Some of the photos were in tin frames and some were inside albums. There were old blankets and hand-sewn quilts that my grandmother treasured. I wonder now if they had been created by her mother. I loved looking at the beautiful lace doilies that were carefully tucked away inside an old book. I can still smell the old wood and remember the 'clang' of the hardware as you opened the lid. And the buzzing of wasps around the only window; a window that was just inches from the floor and if you lay on your tummy you could look out over her vegetable gardens and into her neighbour's field. The sun would stream in there and brighten up the shabby surroundings. The pipe from the wood-stove in the summer kitchen came up through the floor along with the smell of the burning wood, and if you put your ear there, you could hear the laughter and the conversations between the adults.  I can still hear my mother's laugh. :) 

 This attic was where I headed, as a child, once the "hellos" and hugs were over-with on every visit. "Now be careful with the photos", my mom would say.
 
And every late Spring, there was a very special reason for rushing to the attic on arrival. Maggie, my grandmother's brown & gold-striped tabby, would proudly show off her litter of kittens as she spent six weeks or so caring for them in an old wicker basket that my gran so lovingly prepared for her. To me, it was like entering the gates of heaven :)

                                                                       (pinterest)

hugs, Deb