Grandma’s Attic
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I have always wished I had a relative with a massive Victorian house. A house that had been in the family for generations and had an attic filled to the rafters with boxes, trunks, wardrobes, and crates of books, papers, corsets, and shoes. Alas, the only home in my family that has been around for generations has been continuously occupied for the last 200 years by people who are decidedly NOT packrats. The attic is spotless and absolutely not filled with timeless treasures.
And, sadly, when my grandmother passed away last August, the house went to my uncle who promptly rented it out and stopped taking care of it. I assume he will eventually sell the house and the acreage around the house because he prefers to live in his mansion atop as hill in a tony neighborhood. That, despite the fact that I have numerous cousins with young families who would be more than thrilled to carry on the legacy of the Watson farmhouse.
We live in an age where families do not stay together in their hometowns and pass along ownership of ancestral homes. We have given over tradition to mobility and new money. Who among us rally feel like we have roots? I still struggle over what to call my home town. It seems ridiculous that I was more at home in Gainesville, Florida than if I were to go back to where I was born and raised in the DC suburbs, where I no longer know anyone.
I long for Grandma’s Attic.
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