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. Immedia
