Skeleton in the Attic

This is something that has been on my mind lately for reasons unknown to me.

My maternal grandparents had a skeleton in their attic. A real bones and bones skeleton. And, there were boxes of bones on the shelves. Human bones. No, they weren't into the Black Arts. My Grandfather was an orthopedic surgeon. It was, I suppose, not uncommon for an orthopedic surgeon to have his own skeleton. At least, it was accepted as "normal" in my family.

During the day, the skeleton never bothered me. My sister and I would spend hours playing in that attic. My Grandmother was a pack rat. There were trunks of glamorous clothes and costume jewelry from the 30's. Tons of it. Plus toys from the 30's and 40's that my mom and her siblings used to play with. And books, and magazines (every single Life magazine from Issue 1), and decorations, and old Brownie cameras, ... and a skeleton.

I once wrapped a fox stole (complete with head and feet) around the skeleton. I figured they were both dead things, so, why not? My grandparents were not amused.

At night, things were different. The house had no air conditioning, and summer nights in Atlanta are hot. The windows would be open waiting for breeze. And we would fall asleep looking for the cool side of the pillow while listening to the drone of an oscillating fan. After midnight, the house was so still that we could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock booming through the house. And, then I would hear it ... the skeleton slowing creaking down the attic stairs.Night after night, it was on the stairs.

But, every morning it was back where it should be.

My own children will never experience anything close to this. My parents have no skeleton in their house; no boxes of bones. While my mom is a pack rat, the scariest thing she has held onto are old Reader's Digests. Years of them. But, who knows? Maybe my kids wake up in the night in fear of the condensed written word.