Tackling the Steps

With a metallic squeal, the trap door pulls open. Something catches, probably one of the springs, it needs to be closed and then reopened. It works on the second try. Bits of dust and vermiculite fall down as the door is opened. It has been a while since I’ve been up in the attic; the dust has had plenty of time to accumulate.

    As the door creaks open the dark rectangle of the opening appears. The impression of rafters can be seen in the weak light filtering up from the hallway. One of the two springs that pull the door shut, hangs out of line. It no longer notches into the metal retainer as it should, it hangs out, closer to the steps. Right into the path needed to climb into the attic.

    Unfolding the steps, I unconsciously lean away from the spring. I don’t trust it. Well over 60 years ago, the hook on the end had broken off just as my father had started up the stairs. I wasn’t there but I remember the scar. The spring was replaced but it still worries me! Ever since that happened, I have always approached these stairs with apprehension.

    When the door opens and the springs stretch out, they sing. When they reach the point where the weight of the steps overcome the strength of the springs, there is still a twang heard.

    The spring on the right settles between two struts, holding it in position. The one on the left sits a bit off center, humming as it finds its position.

    These stairs are old and the individual steps creak as I put my weight on them. They appear solid, there are no visible cracks, yet each step produces another noise. I listen carefully for the sound of one of them breaking.

    They aren’t wide and I have to twist slightly to get past the one spring. My face comes close to it as I start and I look closely each time, trying to see if there are any new cracks or indications that it might fail. With every step, the spring sings a bit and the hook at its end tries to snag my clothing.

    My head rises up above the ceiling joists and the boards nailed to them. They are grey and dirty. The house is nearly 90 years old and no paint or finish has ever been put on these boards. There are knotholes in them and they aren’t all even. One side sits higher than the other. I can see boxes and old furniture in the shadows under the rafters.

    When I get high enough, I swing my hand around above me. Muscle memory from decades of coming up into the attic finds the string hanging from the peak of the roof. A quick pull and the attic lights up.

    At one time this area was packed full of items, leftovers from my parents and my lives. I have been working for years to clean it up. Like any project that requires time, it doesn’t always go in the direction you want it to. There are times when the recently cleared spaces under the eaves get refilled with more items, things that aren’t needed but can’t be thrown away. Being a collector, or a pack rat, makes it difficult!

    I’ve come up to do some more cleaning. I’ll be trying to find some things that have outlived their usefulness. I’ll be separating the nostalgic from the unnecessary. And then, deciding if they really are useless. It won’t be easy. It is often very tough to determine something’s need.

    The toughest part is past, that’s getting up the steps safely. Now, getting back down will be another thing!