Dave Blodgett

My grandfather’s attic is an irresistible magnet for a nine-year-old boy.

A packed warehouse dimly illuminated by light from two dirty dormer windows that do not deter spiders from making it their exclusive territory. Cobwebs dominate the décor. The air is still and musty. No ventilation. I visit it often.

Filled with old trunks, packing crates, chests of drawers, stacks of science-fiction magazines, bundled newspapers, shelves full of books with browning pages, framed oil paintings, a chiffonier, three ladies’ dress making dummies, a banjo, ukulele, snare drum and most precious of all—my Uncle Winslow’s World War I U. S. Army uniform and equipment: a dress uniform, Sam Browne belt, field boots, canteen in a rotting cotton cover, mess kit with utensils. But it is the peaked, felt hat with a chinstrap that catches my fancy. I can’t resist. I steal it and creep slowly and quietly unseen down the squeaky attic steps and out the front door at 403 Nevada, next door to my home of 22 years.

A group of friends are playing kick the can across the street. I join them. The hat comes down over my ears and attracts the attention of my best buddy’s big brother. Cort is a muscular 15-year-old who takes one look at the oversized, regulation U. S. Army hat and decides to buy it from me. He sets the price: fifteen cents.

The attic at 403 Nevada is suddenly and sadly off limits. Grandpa is not happy about his stupid nine-year-old grandson selling a priceless piece of his son Winslow’s Army uniform for fifteen cents. The hat is promptly retrieved and returned to the attic.