Yes, there really were handprints in my attic. They were put there to imprint my legacy on the house I grew up calling home. When I was a young child, my attic always held a certain air of mystique to it. In my mind it was a no-go zone. It was like a place described in many horror stories to be avoided at all costs.
Often times a strong draft would make the attic door creek open giving it the appearance of someone coming in and out of the attic, but who am I to say it was haunted? I only lived there! Oh, the tales I could tell of that house that still make me reach for some reasonable explanation. Those tales and others will bring the house at 20 Walter Street come back to life and be remembered as a sanctuary to many, but a prison to an unfortunate few.
The fear I had of the attic when I younger soon dissipated by the time I reached my Junior High School years when I discovered the attic's true value. It was a great place to skip school when I had no other place to go. My friend, Linda and I spent many a day tucked away in the attic discussing boys among other things while listening to all the best songs on the radio and practicing the latest dance moves doing all very quietly, of course. The rooms directly below the attic were empty and unused so unless we got extremely raucous which we never did we always stayed undetected in my attic hideaway.
The attic had three rooms. One room was almost sealed off from the rest of the attic. It was dark and foreboding. I never explored it nor did I ever shine a flashlight into the window size opening that was at the top of right side of the stairway. As silly as it sounds, I was always afraid of what I might see. After all, the house was built in the middle 1800's. Who knows what could be lurking in that foreboding darkness. Some things are best left alone.
The other two rooms were at the top of the left side of the stairway. The room directly at the top of the stairs had exposed rafters from a steeply pitched roof, but had finished walls front and back and a wide plank wooden floor. It had a large closet type room without a door partitioned along the back right wall. It made a great place to stash pillows and blankets for when it was cold and once I hung a blanket for a door on it, we used the space as a pseudo bedroom because it was so cozy and secluded from everything else.
The other room had two windows in it that looked out onto the street that ran past my house. That room was completely finished and had a crawlspace the length of the room along its left side. Upon exploring it, I found old papers and other things stashed in it, but none of it seemed of any value to me at the time. Those things I found that I deemed of no value most likely would be a treasure trove for a genealogy researcher. What's the saying? Young, dumb and full of cum! That pretty much describes me back then. Now, I wish I had saved all those things.
Slowly the attic was transformed into a semi-furnished place to hang out. The transformation began as soon as I started hauling discarded furniture up there. Soon the attic had two old sofas, several chairs, a table, a radio, a few lamps, a window fan and other various items I had collected and hauled up there. What I remember most about the attic from that time is its musty smell. I thought of many ways to eliminate that smell and tried things like burning incense and spraying air freshener, but nothing seemed to work because that musty smell had been there for many, many years. I was determined to rid the place of what I thought kept it from being idyllic. Finally, what helped most was when I decide to paint the walls and floors of the two usable rooms.
The transformation hit high gear when I organized a painting party. Each person who planned to attend the party was instructed to bring whatever remnants of old paint they could find. One of my contributions was a tangerine colored paint that was used to paint an old sea captain's trunk that was downstairs. I always thought my mother was crazy for painting that trunk any color instead of restoring it. The lemon colored paint came from my bedroom and the lavender colored paint from one of the downstairs bathrooms. The wide plank floor was painted in stripes. Each plank was a different color. Then the room took on a whole new life of its own when we all used the rest of the paint in a much more creative way. We put our multi-colored handprints all over the walls. The final result looked like something out of a lunatic's mind or perhaps a scene from a Dr. Seuss poem.
One hand
Two hands
Red hand
Blue hand
Black hand
Blue hand
Old hand
New hand
Some are red and some are blue.
Some are old and some are new.
Some are sad and some are glad.
And some are very, very bad.
Why are they sad and glad and bad?
I don't know. Go ask your dad.
Some are thin and some are fat.
The fat one has a yellow hat.
From there to here, from here to there,
Funny things everywhere.
Here are some who like to run.
They run for fun in the hot, hot sun
Oh me! Oh my!
Oh me! Oh my!
What a lot of funny things go by.
Some have two hands and some have four.
Some have six hands and some have more.
Where do they come from?
I cant say.
But I bet they have come a long, long way.
We see them come.
We see them go.
Some are fast.
And some are slow.
Some are high.
And some are low
Not one of them is like another.
Don't ask us why.
Go ask your mother.
(adapted from "Red Fish Blue Fish" by Dr. Seuss)
Many years later the plot thickened into a sort of silly, jiggly jello kind of a laughable mess. My family home of many years was sold and converted into 3 apartments. My cousin, Debbie still lived next door and the new owner asked her if she knew who used to live there. I think she must have been a little hesitant to commit to answering that question until she was asked if she knew that someone had painted handprints all over the attic. With that she laughed and nodded her head. It was that crazy saucy tart cousin of hers who joyfully left her imprint on that very old, very bold yellow brick house.
