In the Attics of our Childhoods
Where do all the treasures of one’s childhood go? I grew up in a military family frequently on the move. When my parents retired after thirty years in the Air Force and bought a home in San Antonio, I assumed that their attic contained what remained of my childhood possessions—out of sight but not forgotten. For decades, those treasures weathered the heat and humidity of South Texas summers, waiting patiently to be reclaimed. Would I ever to find boxes in my parents’ attic marked “Cathy’s Stuff?” And if so, what might they contain?
Reaching back in time, I recently conjured up the following treasures. A leather bag filled with my marble collection—Cat’s eyes, steelies, aggies, and more with names I’ve long forgotten. A tobacco pouch filled with jacks and a small rubber ball. My baseball card collection. A can of pickup sticks. A complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries. A miniature kitchen where I once baked a tiny cake. My hula hoop, bongo board, roller skates and key, ice skates, and my black Raleigh bike. Clay leaf molds from Girl Scout summer camp when I was ten. And sand dollars from a Florida beach that I dried in the sun until they turned white as snow.
Until Dad’s death in 1999 and Mom’s various knee, ankle and hip surgeries, the attic was my parents’ territory. But eventually, my sisters and I became the ones scaling the collapsible attic stairs where Christmas decorations and old suitcases were stored, along with scores of labeled storage boxes. On one of my visits to San Antonio, Mom needed documentation chronicling her father’s distinguished career in the Army in order to have his name included in the registry at the National World War II Memorial in Washington, DC. She was certain that some of Grandad’s papers and medals were in a box in the attic labeled “Granny’s Stuff.” And trust me, mother was never wrong.
Access to the attic that is now my sister Kim’s territory is a short rope that dangles from a panel cut into the hallway ceiling. Once pulled down, sectional steps can be unfolded. After pushing a large sheet of insulation away from the opening at the top of the stairwell and pulling a chain on the single light bulb that illuminates the attic, the trick is always to avoid falling through the opening while rummaging around its edges. While one of us ascends the narrow steps, another sister waits below ready to receive whatever is handed down from the attic, and then guides each descending footstep safely down.
Eventually I found what Mother wanted and eased myself and the hefty box backward down the narrow set of steps and into the hands of my sisters who then collapsed the steps and pushed the ceiling panel back up into place. This is going to be fun, I thought once safely back on ground level. No telling what treasures Granny’s box might contain.
And so a journey back began. Not just into my grandfather William Henry Kasten’s military history, but also into a whole world of associations that intersected the lives of my grandparents and mother during the 20th century. After opening the box, I retrieve the contents one item at a time and hand them to Mom. We soon discover that the box contained not only Grandad’s military records, but letters and documents from all three of Granny’s marriages to military officers.
First Mom read through her father’s WWII military records and set aside the papers she needed. His obituary, along with letters to my grandfather from General George Marshall and General Dwight Eisenhower are among the impressive collection of papers. There were also a Distinguished Service Medal and a Legion of Merit Legionnaire Medal in satin lined black boxes lined with gold satin.
In another box I found a silver pocket watch beautifully engraved with “JPW”— Granny’s second husband who my sisters and I called Papa. To my delight, it started running after I gave the stem a careful winding. Among Granny’s personal letters was one I wrote to Papa when he was dying. I was twelve—full of tales from our family vacation that summer at Ft. Walton Beach, Florida. In the envelop, I’d enclosed a sand dollar that was still white as snow.
Mother suffered a stroke early in 2019. I flew to San Antonio where my sisters and I initiated home Hospice Care and made a lemon cake celebrating her 100th birthday early just in case she achieved that milestone. While sitting with her, surrounded by family pictures and a lifetime of memories, I wondered if there might be some boxes in the attic labeled “Cathy’s Stuff.” She couldn’t remember, but I still love imagining the treasures from my childhood they might have contained.