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Feb. 23rd, 2003 06:44 pmNot too long ago my grandmother's house burned. Fortunately not all of it, just the attic, and all the prescious things stored there.... At some point someone (we know who, and that's a bigger affront than what happened) broke in and stole all my great grandmother's crystal and jewelery. She's been living in a motel in Saratoga since the fire, and was about to move back in when they discovered all the radiators burst because the oil company forgot to drain them before closing up the house. That's being dealt with though, and will soon be over.
And so that was that, right? We'd lost enough, right?
Apparently not.
Last night her barn collapsed, all of it. Gone, ruined, just a pile of rubble.
My grandmother's attic was a dear place to me, but not half so sacred as the barn. There was a wall in it with my name carved in it, so I could join the history of the place with all the other names carved into the same walls, painted on it.... I knew every board in it, every rafter, I could navigate them so easily in my youth. I could swing up the rafters into one of the otherwise inaccesible rafters, and navigate the forbidden large attic and all its death traps, creep across the back wall on the support beam that went across it to the other loft, and one of my few friends in high schols was the ghost who lived there. (And where does he go now?) The barn was a fortress. It was safe from any sort of pain, no one could ever reach me there, there was no attack that could withstand those walls. I knew each of the objects stored there, all the secret forgotten things, all the very old records, the newspapers from WWI, old letters and greeting cards, photographs of family members dead for well over a century, I knew the history there. I was part of it. I never thought I would live long enough to see its demise, and here I am.
Yet another home lost, another connection to my past gone.... I need those physical connections to things that have gone before, because otherwise I forget. There was a piece of slate there, with words traced on it with another piece of slate by my first boyfriend whom I led through the obstacle course of rafters to the smallest of lofts, my most favored spot. It pledged his undying love to me, for all eternity. He was 16, I was 15. How many times did I sneak out there in the middle of the night to escape my mother, and find solace in the strength of those beams, hand hewn two hundred years ago? How many things did I discover that no one else remembered? How many games of exploring castles in the woods as a child?
What do you do when all your most sacred places fall? When have you lost too much? When does it end?
And so that was that, right? We'd lost enough, right?
Apparently not.
Last night her barn collapsed, all of it. Gone, ruined, just a pile of rubble.
My grandmother's attic was a dear place to me, but not half so sacred as the barn. There was a wall in it with my name carved in it, so I could join the history of the place with all the other names carved into the same walls, painted on it.... I knew every board in it, every rafter, I could navigate them so easily in my youth. I could swing up the rafters into one of the otherwise inaccesible rafters, and navigate the forbidden large attic and all its death traps, creep across the back wall on the support beam that went across it to the other loft, and one of my few friends in high schols was the ghost who lived there. (And where does he go now?) The barn was a fortress. It was safe from any sort of pain, no one could ever reach me there, there was no attack that could withstand those walls. I knew each of the objects stored there, all the secret forgotten things, all the very old records, the newspapers from WWI, old letters and greeting cards, photographs of family members dead for well over a century, I knew the history there. I was part of it. I never thought I would live long enough to see its demise, and here I am.
Yet another home lost, another connection to my past gone.... I need those physical connections to things that have gone before, because otherwise I forget. There was a piece of slate there, with words traced on it with another piece of slate by my first boyfriend whom I led through the obstacle course of rafters to the smallest of lofts, my most favored spot. It pledged his undying love to me, for all eternity. He was 16, I was 15. How many times did I sneak out there in the middle of the night to escape my mother, and find solace in the strength of those beams, hand hewn two hundred years ago? How many things did I discover that no one else remembered? How many games of exploring castles in the woods as a child?
What do you do when all your most sacred places fall? When have you lost too much? When does it end?
