February 25, 2007
Originally published June 8, 2005
One thing we DON'T have in southeast Georgia is a basement. You dig a hole 10 feet deep around here and you hit water. You won't have a basement--- you'll have an indoor swimming pool or a fish-pond.
I always envied my friends up north who had basements. Those rooms were GREAT! You could put in a workshop, a pool table or just pile it full of junk as you turned it into a sanctorum--- a place to get away for a while. I spent many a fine day drinking beer and watching football on a big TV in somebody's basement.
Down South, we're stuck with attics. That's where all the detritus of life ends up in cardboard boxes or cedar chests over the years, because there's no room for it anywhere else. You don't go to the attic to party or drink beer--- it's too fucking HOT up there. But attics are wonderful places sometimes.
I read this post and remembered the stuff mama had in the attic when she died. Every report card my brother and I ever got from school. All our baby teeth in separate pill bottles, labeled with our names. Drawings, letters and great works of art from our childhood days. Pictures of mama and daddy long before my brother and I ever came along.
I can look at that kind of stuff for a long time before I get bored, even if it IS hot up there. That's a lot of my family history in those boxes and chests. I am very pleased that my mama chose to hang onto that stuff.
In my mind, what is in that attic is priceless.
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