Homecoming

The stairs to the attic still creak, as if anyone who makes their way up here, must be announced first. Spirits and mice need to prepare for visitors.

As a child I’d sneak into the attic to investigate the past lives of my family: heaps of ancient black and white photos of unrecognizable people wearing clothes from another time. One corner was full of old hat boxes, lined with crinkly tissue paper. Opening them I’d find elaborate toppers and veiled fascinators, adorned with rare bird feathers. Pillbox and cloche hats, a jaunty beret in red felt and a musty ermine muff set, complete with the gruesome, beady-eyed face of the poor weasel-like animal.

In Gram’s trunk of colorful polyester suits, an aura of talcum powder and lavender washed over me, like a balm. One tomato red number was a favorite that I paired with shiny black kitten heels, tromping around the cramped space, imagining the life of my young grandmother.

The attic never felt haunted or scary, just dusty and dank. As an introspective child, I didn’t mind. I liked the dark corners and silence, even when sweltering in summer. Nobody bothered me during my exploratory forays. Mother wouldn’t be caught dead traipsing up those rickety stairs to the extreme clutter, barely contained beneath half rotten rafters and eaves, the air thick and pungent. Old crates were damp bloated and coated in inches of dust and intricate lace spider webs. Piles of mouse droppings and bits of fluff, scavenged from old clothes and bedding, lay around like discarded tumbleweeds.

I wanted to meet the frisky critters hidden in the higher elevations of Gram’s house.

They were elusive, even when I kept absolutely still. When curled beneath heirloom quilts in the bedroom below, I’d hear them scampering in the walls, likely chewing electrical wires or pages of my childhood Nancy Drews. Some nights they’d make such a racket, I’d slip up to the 3rd floor, avoiding the squeaky steps, hoping to catch sight of them in action.

Somehow, they intuited my childish curiosity and skittered away. I’d leave snacks… an offering of moldy cheddar or an open packet of saltines. They appreciated my generosity but hid when I snooped around their lair. I felt their presence in every way… the fungal essence and sweet-sour rankness of fur, the tickle of tiny whiskers, and the clickity clack of nails across rough-hewn, unfinished floorboards. In my dreams they were dressed like bitty soldiers in dapper red jackets, with shining epaulettes of bronze, wielding swords to defend me – just like the mice in the Nutcracker. I was their long, lost princess and this was my castle.

Captivated by their invisible world, I yearned to be invited in. When the bug man set traps or dumped green blocks of rat poison in the attic, I tossed them out. Gram never knew. I couldn’t fathom the barbaric mass murder, regardless of their nuisance value or destructive nature.

I longed to be accepted into their fold. But my eight-year-old self was too massive to be welcomed. When not attempting to ingratiate myself, I spent hours in Gram’s garden, studying the micro-cosmos. Insects and flying things fascinated me. Intrigued with their industriousness, I grew alarmed that I wasn’t a part of something bigger in my own life. Attempting to help, I’d be rewarded with angry bites or stings when they’d find my sticky fingers an invasive presence.

I watched yellow jackets, hornets and bumble bees flit flower to flower, pollan sticking to chubby backsides. I’d draw detailed pictures, trying to understand the scope of their behavior. I found books about bees, their waggle dance and the remarkable dynamics of their complex societies. Little did I know this interest would lead me to a degree in entomology.

Little did I know that Gram’s attic and my fascination with insects and mice and more specifically, the following of mouse trails, would lead me to a career in international defense and surveillance.

That attic of old trunks, filled with sepia-toned photos and moth-eaten polyester dresses, spurred a yearning for knowledge. Questions unfolded in my mind. Why do mice move and behave the way they do? What are mouse families like? Do Mama mice rule the roost? Why are they attracted to dark and murky places? Could they accept or trust a human friend?

I kept copious notes of my mouse studies. I collected photos of the common house mouse and re-drew them over and over. I employed music therapy, like the pied piper, playing my 3rd grade brown recorder to see if they’d overcome their shyness. They weren’t impressed. Then I added different sound-scapes: recordings of rushing water, howling wolves or the gentle tinkle of wind chimes. They were less shy during recordings of waterfalls or wind chimes. Wolf howls silenced them. Wolf songs and lapping water lulled me to sleep.

During one such babbling brook session, I woke with a start. I caught sight of the tail-end of a mouse as it dove into a corner crack. I doubled my efforts once I knew the location of his hidey hole. I made that corner my base… stalking and hovering… waiting like a deer hunter in a blind. I covered myself in a tattered blanket, cutting out holes for my eyes. Gram found me holed up one day, draped in an old bedsheet. She thought I was pretending to be Casper the Friendly Ghost.

But Mickey Mouse knew I was there. I’d pretend to doze off, which often led me to falling sleep. When I’d startle awake, a brief movement in my peripheral vision gave me hope. I wasn’t always sure if those apparitions were real or not. I preferred inhabiting the bewildering place between reality and fantasy. Eventually my perseverance paid off. Mickey Mouse began to trust me, but I had to remain perfectly still. Not an easy thing for an eight-year old with ADHD. When I’d reach up to scratch my ear, he’d zip off. But over time he became less concerned with my presence. We shared packets of saltines and chunks of apples. The day he hopped up on my pants leg, was a thrill.

Twenty-five years later, I stand outside the door to Gram’s attic. It’s time for a cleaning out but I’m hesitant. I’m reluctant to cross the threshold, trudging up worn stairs. What if the magic is gone? What if I find dead mice, ruthlessly murdered by Pest B Gone, hired by my immaculate mother?

I owe a debt of gratitude to Mickey Mouse and those early rodent ancestors who sparked my imagination in the musty confines of Gram’s third floor.

I turn the knob and step up, knowing to place my foot closest to the right side of the stair to avoid excess squeaking. Memory floods as the smell brings me back: damp and stale, like wet cardboard. Layered beneath is the unmistakable edge of rodent musk, oily and sour-sweet, like rancid peanuts, mixed with acrid whiffs of urine and droppings that cling to floorboards and dark corners.

I’m home.