"Pirates, Indians and Locomotives in Grandma's Attic"

It was 1940 and my sister Harriet and I spent many hours exploring the magical wonders of Grandma's attic. The attic's unpainted, dried out wooden roof beams and floor planks looked like the interior of an old wooden schooner, a picture of which I had seen in one of Grandma's travel magazines. Its small glass window was the porthole from where I had a panoramic view of the Hudson River, the distant mountains, and the many homes and yards of the west side of town.

On our first trip up into grandma's attic, we pretended to be pirates in search of lost and forgotten gold coins. I was six and Harriet was ten.

I followed Harriet as she slowly and quietly climbed up the carpeted, banister protected, stairway to the second floor. From there, we crept on our hands and knees along a narrow hallway. At the end of the hall, a wooden door opened onto the five steep steps that led to the attic's landing.

Harriet, the captain of the expedition, cautiously opened the door. Immediately, the smell of musty old clothes and the sharp scent of moth balls invaded my nose. The door hinges squeaked and it seemed that it took forever for Harriet to open it wide enough for us to craw through.

Because the steps did not have a railing they presented a challenge for my short plump legs. With the help of my sister pushing from behind, I finally navigated the creaky stairs.

At the top, I stood looking at all sorts of items hanging from hooks, nails, and ropes that were strung and attached to the roof beams. There were coats, jackets, suits, and dresses of all sizes and shapes. In one corner old adult ice skates, binoculars, and a child's sleigh with wood runners hung from individual hooks. An Indian head dress complete with colored feathers and beaded trim quickly caught my eye. It dangled from the center roof beam in a ray of sunlight that was coming through the far window. Suddenly thoughts of Indian raids and scalping flashed in my mind. Frightened, I rushed to Harriet's side as she switched on the one electric light bulb that hung from a chain in the center of the attic.

Tucked away in one corner was an RCA windup phonograph, made of highly polished mahogany veneer, and a stack of records that echoed the voices of Irish tenors and opera stars from a period long before our time. For hours I cranked the handle of the vintage Victrola while my sister sorted through mounds of records, selecting the next one to play. My chubby arms cramped as the tenors voices bellowed ghostly moans long before she became bored and searched for other things to do.

We treasure-hunted in the huge dusty black steamer trunks searching for lost and forgotten gold coins. Or at least I always hoped. At first we only uncovered volumes of women's apparel from the days when they were imprisoned in high button shoes, corsets and hats decorated with veils, beads, feathers and artificial fruit. However, when Harriet pried open a fancy white box I thought we had hit the mother load. There before our eyes sparkled an assortment of women's necklaces, pins, and bracelets the likes of which we had never seen before. I squealed and jumped for joy at our discovery. My sister, fearing that Grandma or our parents would hear, grabbed my shirt collar and yanked my face to within two inches of hers. In a quiet, yet stern, voice she slowly uttered the words, "Shut up," which, of course, I immediately did.

Buried within other trunks and suitcases were physical reminders of the past that my grandmother held dear to her heart. Harriet sifted through old photos of family members, relatives, and friends and pictures of our changing town. She marveled at how different older relatives looked when they were young, and how the women were pretty and slim and the men tall and handsome.

Oh, the tortures a brother endures to play with an older sister under threat of being barred from what would surely become his favorite hideaway.

From the items she found in the old trunks Harriet recreated the fashions she saw in the old photographs. I was her reluctant model. In protest I stamped my feet, cried, threw myself on the floor, and even faked illness. All to no avail.

She was tough.

Like a mannequin I stood motionless on an old wood crate. Harriet tightly laced up an old sweat stained corset from underneath my armpits to well below my hips. As I sneezed endlessly she pulled the dusty dresses on and off me at a dizzy pace. They all drooped from my shoulders and, like an opened parachute, fanned out on the floor around my feet. With every dress she tested the compatibility of every hat. Looking for perfection, she tilted them on my head in all directions, rearranging feathers and fruits, and lowering, raising and in some instances completely removing the laced veils. Necklaces were slung and looped several times around my neck. Bracelets stretched from my wrists to my elbows and pins, of all shapes and sizes, covered the dress. The oversized high button shoes, laced up to my knees, completed the ensembles.

While Harriet looked through more pictures I stood on a bench peering out the west window. I focused the old binoculars on the Hudson River and pretended that I was a pirate inside a schooner's crows nest. The roaring twenties clothing that I was wearing was my pirate costume.

As we left the attic for our return journey to Grandma's lower deck I glanced at the potbelly stove, nestled in one corner of the attic. I contemplated that my next trip that stove would provide the power needed to drive my imaginary steam locomotive.

However, as a younger, subdued, and unresisting younger brother, I knew that before engineering the 20th Century Limited I would once again be Harriet's fantasy doll in her new and revised fashion show production.