Missed the beginning? Read Part I here.
Leah's mom didn't seem to think her
husband was such a brainiac either. This surprised us at first since
she poured over boring wildflower books during camping trips instead of
racing leaf boats with us. But she suffered from chronic
vicarious-hypochondria, and she was losing the myriad of threats the
attic posed to her children's health. She seemed to really enjoy
warning us that we'd get frostbite, or cook our brains out, or suffer
a brown recluse bite and subsequent expert medical-drowning in
peroxide, or get sucked into the giant blades of the house fan. Now
she was going to have to dream up all new child-health hazards to
enhance her own immune system.
No one else wanting to be up there was
part of the beauty of our deep-freezer-sweat-lodge hideout. We had
spent countless hours playing in the attic away from the prying eyes
of her parents and pesky little brother, and countless more dodging
death climbing in and out of it. Getting into the attic would have
been easy had we been willing to compromise our secret mission and
asked her mom to pull the stairs down for us. But the danger and
difficulty of our ascent made it that much better. We always began by
hurling our tiny bodies upward, arms outstretched, frantically
flailing for the drawstring. Jump-thump, jump-thUMP, jump-THUMP!
Nevermind the herd of kangaroos kickboxing on the second floor, Mom.
Nothing happening up here, no ma'am. Being four feet tall at the
time, we rarely succeeded in these attempts, but our mission remained
undiscovered. We moved on to the acrobatic portion of our act,
perching precariously on the banister above the stairwell and its
12-foot drop to the first floor.
Creak-WHEEE-creak-CRASH-OWWWWWWWWEEEEEEEEE! We flew threw the air,
caught the cord, and swung wildly, needing every ounce of body weight
to pull down the trapdoor and the stairs it concealed. The stairs,
although hinged and folded, often saved us a step by slamming down
onto our delicate little brains. Recovering from our concussive stun,
we scampered halfway up the ladder, pulled the bottom half of it up
with all our weight while attempting not to pitch head over heels,
and then teetered over the trapdoor, often pinching our little
fingers as it slammed shut with a final heave-ho.
But bashed brains and pinched fingers were a small price to pay. Once we sealed ourselves up in this dusty sarcophagus, we had total privacy - our own personal world. Our routine commenced. We immediately forgot the dollies we'd hurled up ahead of us and our deathly fear of spiders and clambered over to the lone window at the far end of the attic. We peered through the rusty fan blades, elated at our elevation. We took a few deep, asbestos-filled breaths and gazed out over the neighbors' roof and envied their balcony. Then, having surveyed our secret kingdom and spied on any unsuspecting subjects, we turned our attention to the attic's discarded treasures. The previous tenants had left it stuffed with scraps of material, fake flowers, dusty hats and scarves, and drawers full of buttons, nails, and the odd piece of jewelry. We sorted through the dusty heaps, forming new piles of treasures we now coveted as our own - an especially realistic-looking felted-plastic red rose, tiny keys that might unlock another little girl's diary, gaudy fabric samples for quilting projects that would never materialize. But our most precious discovery was the long-abandoned, angsty teen journal of the high school principal's son. It had the F-word in it and a pencil sketch of boobs. Way better than any Goonies' pirate map, we had unsupervised access to the inner-workings of a gross boy's cootie-ridden mind. Now we knew real secrets, real dirt on someone – the principal's son cussed and liked nipples, teehehe-hehe.
Leah's mom didn't seem to think her
husband was such a brainiac either. This surprised us at first since
she poured over boring wildflower books during camping trips instead of
racing leaf boats with us. But she suffered from chronic
vicarious-hypochondria, and she was losing the myriad of threats the
attic posed to her children's health. She seemed to really enjoy
warning us that we'd get frostbite, or cook our brains out, or suffer
a brown recluse bite and subsequent expert medical-drowning in
peroxide, or get sucked into the giant blades of the house fan. Now
she was going to have to dream up all new child-health hazards to
enhance her own immune system.
No one else wanting to be up there was
part of the beauty of our deep-freezer-sweat-lodge hideout. We had
spent countless hours playing in the attic away from the prying eyes
of her parents and pesky little brother, and countless more dodging
death climbing in and out of it. Getting into the attic would have
been easy had we been willing to compromise our secret mission and
asked her mom to pull the stairs down for us. But the danger and
difficulty of our ascent made it that much better. We always began by
hurling our tiny bodies upward, arms outstretched, frantically
flailing for the drawstring. Jump-thump, jump-thUMP, jump-THUMP!
Nevermind the herd of kangaroos kickboxing on the second floor, Mom.
Nothing happening up here, no ma'am. Being four feet tall at the
time, we rarely succeeded in these attempts, but our mission remained
undiscovered. We moved on to the acrobatic portion of our act,
perching precariously on the banister above the stairwell and its
12-foot drop to the first floor.
Creak-WHEEE-creak-CRASH-OWWWWWWWWEEEEEEEEE! We flew threw the air,
caught the cord, and swung wildly, needing every ounce of body weight
to pull down the trapdoor and the stairs it concealed. The stairs,
although hinged and folded, often saved us a step by slamming down
onto our delicate little brains. Recovering from our concussive stun,
we scampered halfway up the ladder, pulled the bottom half of it up
with all our weight while attempting not to pitch head over heels,
and then teetered over the trapdoor, often pinching our little
fingers as it slammed shut with a final heave-ho.But bashed brains and pinched fingers were a small price to pay. Once we sealed ourselves up in this dusty sarcophagus, we had total privacy - our own personal world. Our routine commenced. We immediately forgot the dollies we'd hurled up ahead of us and our deathly fear of spiders and clambered over to the lone window at the far end of the attic. We peered through the rusty fan blades, elated at our elevation. We took a few deep, asbestos-filled breaths and gazed out over the neighbors' roof and envied their balcony. Then, having surveyed our secret kingdom and spied on any unsuspecting subjects, we turned our attention to the attic's discarded treasures. The previous tenants had left it stuffed with scraps of material, fake flowers, dusty hats and scarves, and drawers full of buttons, nails, and the odd piece of jewelry. We sorted through the dusty heaps, forming new piles of treasures we now coveted as our own - an especially realistic-looking felted-plastic red rose, tiny keys that might unlock another little girl's diary, gaudy fabric samples for quilting projects that would never materialize. But our most precious discovery was the long-abandoned, angsty teen journal of the high school principal's son. It had the F-word in it and a pencil sketch of boobs. Way better than any Goonies' pirate map, we had unsupervised access to the inner-workings of a gross boy's cootie-ridden mind. Now we knew real secrets, real dirt on someone – the principal's son cussed and liked nipples, teehehe-hehe.
Sure the garden's hostile takeover had
secrets too. “Don't tell the D.A.R.E. cop that Daddy is growing
potted-plants in the attic.” What a dumb secret. Why would we want
to tell anybody that? Plus we never talked to the police man anyway.
He was tall and loud and scary and had greasy hair. We only liked him
because he gave us free stuff, and we didn't have to do any work when
he came to our class, and and we got to watch videos about frying
eggs on sidewalks and dirty, long-haired guys selling bags of dried
weeds. No wonder Leah's dad was growing his own potpourri – those
guys looked like they smelled bad.
Leah's mom thought it was a dumb secret
too....
***
To be continued...In the meantime, grab some munchies. ;)
Aren't you still 4 feet tall? LOL I used to love spending time in the attic too, though ours was not anywhere near as interesting. There really wasn't anything at all up there. Just dusty dusky quietness.
ReplyDeleteFour feet, eleven *and a half* inches, thank you very much ;)
Delete