Grandpa's Attic
Lost Uncles and Opportunities
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Muscles in places Barbara never had aches had aches.
The smell of the boxes of old photos, an aroma that started familiar and homey just reeked of dust and must and cardboard.
They had to digitize some of the millions of photos that Grandpa took, from family barbecues to the swearings-in of a half dozen mayors, but the process of digging through them was more time consuming than anyone expected.
They were only halfway through the attic, with an entire storage unit to go.
She wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she was starting to miss the relative chaos of the Oakland County Prosecutor’s Office and counting days until vacation was over.
Barbara placed photos in boxes by topic, with a small garbage bag for duplicates and strange photos that didn’t seem to have merit, like freshly caulked bathroom tile.
Dina periodically interrupted the tedium with excited exclamations and belches from her nearly debilitating Faygo RedPop addiction.
“Look how short Uncle Ron’s swim trunks are!”
Barbara was going to have to refill her scotch if Dina got excited about another family member they barely knew.
Barbara was only doing the chore hoping to find something of historical significance they could sell or donate.
The political ones mostly belonged to newspapers, the family ones only had small sentimental value to Barbara, but she understood that they should pass them down to new generations.
Barb found one from the day Uncle Michael’s friend Paul Vanson had dinner with the family.Barb thought Paul was the best looking guy who ever lived. She flipped the photo to look at the date. August 4th, 1983.
A month before her 13th birthday.
She managed to view the photo silently, Dina would have woken the neighbors with a squeal.
Paul wound up serving in the Persian Gulf war, lived somewhere in Alaska.
Barb turned and stashed the photo in her oversized Detroit Lions tote bag.
Dina yelled “Hey! I saw that!”
“Sorry Deen. It’s Uncle Mike and Paul Vanson.You don’t really care, right?”
“I love Uncle Mike but I don’t know who Paul Manson is.”
“Vanson. You were too young. Best looking guy who ever lived.”
Barbara held the photo out.
“He’s not bad,” Dina said.
She handed the photo back.
“Can we switch boxes, BeeBee? The one I have now is mostly street scenes and old cars. Since you’re older maybe they’ll mean something to you.”
Barbara clucked her tongue at the crack, but agreed.
“Car Clubs might buy the vintage car ones, ya never know.”
Barbara stood and switched places with Dina.
“Just don’t go nuts over every damn photo, okay, Deen? I’d like to get this project done sometime this century. Grandpa would understand we can’t keep everything.”
Dina nodded, sipped her 2 Liter RedPop, sat effortlessly into a lotus position.
Barbara would ask her about yoga later. Maybe it was time.
The box Dina got bored with had some great old cars. Barabara flipped a photo. June 1975.
Still lots of 1960’s vehicles on the road.
Barbara perused the pictures.
Hard to tell what road it was.
She looked in the background.
Fast food signs.
That wouldn’t help much.
She began to toss handfuls into her “discard pile,” keeping one hot rod she couldn’t identify and a Volkswagen Beetle with a peace sign.
Dina giggled occasionally, and burped, but didn’t interrupt.
Dina was too sentimental. There was only a tiny discard pile getting dwarfed by the keeper pile. It probably was more efficient for her to be working this box.
Then melancholy began to creep in to Barbara’s thoughts, melancholy that her grandpa had been behind the camera, so there were so few pictures of him.
There were a few with men in parking lots, talking around or about cars.
Barbara looked closer, hoping one was Grandpa.
She went through a second photo, and a third, same parking lot, same men, different angles.
She flipped them. August 75.
A new car now, same men, but one man was in the backseat.
It wasn’t grandpa.
She set the photo in the discard pile, grabbed another photo.
Hesitated, reached back for the top photo in the discards.
Guy in the car looked familiar.
She set it back down, pulled a few more. These were truck stops, gas pumps, a Welcome to Ohio sign.
There were duplicates of the Welcome to Ohio sign.
Barbara kept one and threw the rest in the discard pile.
She stood to stretch her legs, decided it was time to pee and get more scotch.
More muscles ached on the climb down the attic ladder to the second floor, then on the stairs down to the kitchen.
She pulled three ice cubes from the plastic tray in the freezer, and almost teared up thinking about how many times Grandpa and Grandma must have done that to make them lemonade.
Barbara poured the scotch over the cubes. It would be the perfect temp when she got back to it.
Grandpa’s bathroom was sad now that the decor had been removed.
Directly across from the toilet used to be a beautiful photo Grandpa took of the Ambassador bridge at dusk, trucks lined up for…
Holy Holy Holy Screaming…the guy in the photo was Jimmy Hoffa…
Barbara wasn’t entirely sure she was done, but she rose, got herself together and ran past the scotch and up the stairs.
When she got to the top she was winded.
She breathed like she thought her pop swilling, yoga practicing sister might, then climbed the ladder.
As her head popped into the attic like a prairie dog in the middle of Wyoming, she turned her head.
Dina was stretched out in some yoga pose.
She had found a picture that had Grandpa in it. The photo was pressed to her forehead and her arms were behind her head like a swan, graceful, at peace.
Barbara lifted herself into the attic and looked down.
Her discard pile sat in a puddle of RedPop.
She took a shallow, wheezing breath and dropped to her knees.
Dina opened her eyes at the thud.
She had kicked over her two liter doing a yoga pose, and the photos were soaking in the syrupy liquid.
Barbara tried to peel one photo from another and the paper ripped, the back of the one stealing the image from the other.
She stood, incensed, pile of wet photos in her hands,feeling helpless.
Hoffa was in there! Possibly after he had last been seen! Grandpa saw Hoffa!
Barbara let out a squeal her younger sister would be jealous of.
Hoffa was buried in that soaked pile of photos, and Barabara didn’t know if she was going to be able to get him out.
***
That was great! Jimmy Hoffa spotted again in a place where he will never be found.
Loved the story and the comments here. Fun stuff!