of the hardware
store where a fire escape led to the second floor and the attic space.
The building that housed the store was nothing more than an old home that had
been repurposed as commercial real estate. I imagined the structure
itself was well over one hundred years old. Local fire codes had required
the fire escape addition when it was converted from a single family home into
apartments decades ago. When the current owners bought the property
before I was born and repurposed it into a hardware store, they never removed
the fire escape. I had discovered on my second visit to the store that I
could pick the lock on the door at the top of the building, thereby gaining
access to the attic. Since then, I had been back half a dozen times
snooping around for some clue as to what may have caused Branson’s illness.
I emerged from the brightness of the day into the
quiet shadows of the attic. Strangely, I found myself enjoying the time I
was spending there and had begun looking forward to my afternoons hidden away
among the eaves. There were so many buried gems just waiting to be
discovered. I found stacks of cardboard boxes filled with store inventory
– nails, screws, measuring tapes. There were also items that were the
Cooper family’s personal belongings, as they lived on the second floor of the
building. Their artificial Christmas tree was lovingly bagged off in a
corner along with a few old sleds that I am sure must have been Mr. Cooper’s
when he was a child. There were beach chairs and boxes of their
children’s old toys along with a few pieces of furniture that must have been
family heirlooms. The most interesting of the attic treasures belonged,
not to the hardware store or the Cooper’s, but to previous tenants.
Behind crooks and crannies, I had discovered old newspaper scraps, a well-worn
paper bag with several silver spoons, and my favorite, a wooden gunshot box
filled with letters. So far, I had read only a few of them. They
were letters sent from a soldier to his wife during a war. They were
magical.
Upon my arrival, I headed over to where I had
hidden the box of letters and began to pick up where I had left off during my
last visit. However, I was only in the attic for about ten minutes before
I heard voices coming from outside. Curiosity caused me to head to the
window to see what all the racket was about.
Encouraged by the gloriously warm weather, a group of children had descended
upon the vacant lot next door to play. I watched them in their
shirtsleeves and sneakers playing what appeared to be kickball. Their
exuberance was uplifting to watch. The simple pleasure of playing ball
with a group of friends made my heart ache for the uncomplicated beauty of
childhood. Watching them reminded me of how Branson and I would have been
at their age, without a care in the world.
Unexpectedly, I was pulled from my thoughts by
the sound of something above me. I peered down to see the children running
towards the store, and it suddenly occurred to me what had happened.
Their ball was missing. It was on the roof.
There was a flurry of activity from inside the
store beneath my feet. I stood alongside the window just out of sight and
watched as the storeowner, Mr. Cooper, emerged from the side door. He was
an older man, probably in his sixties, with a short trimmed beard and a funny handlebar
mustache. Every Christmas he dressed as Santa Claus and gave out treats
to the children. He sponsored a fall festival with hayrides and apple
bobbing each year, and in the spring, he held gardening workshops. People
loved him. It was no surprise that Branson wanted to work for him season
after season.
Two stories below, the children pulled at Mr.
Cooper, pointing toward the roof. He got down on his knees to speak with
them at their level. I could see they were laughing, and by the smiles on
their faces, I knew that no one would be in trouble for kicking the
store where a fire escape led to the second floor and the attic space.
The building that housed the store was nothing more than an old home that had
been repurposed as commercial real estate. I imagined the structure
itself was well over one hundred years old. Local fire codes had required
the fire escape addition when it was converted from a single family home into
apartments decades ago. When the current owners bought the property
before I was born and repurposed it into a hardware store, they never removed
the fire escape. I had discovered on my second visit to the store that I
could pick the lock on the door at the top of the building, thereby gaining
access to the attic. Since then, I had been back half a dozen times
snooping around for some clue as to what may have caused Branson’s illness.
I emerged from the brightness of the day into the
quiet shadows of the attic. Strangely, I found myself enjoying the time I
was spending there and had begun looking forward to my afternoons hidden away
among the eaves. There were so many buried gems just waiting to be
discovered. I found stacks of cardboard boxes filled with store inventory
– nails, screws, measuring tapes. There were also items that were the
Cooper family’s personal belongings, as they lived on the second floor of the
building. Their artificial Christmas tree was lovingly bagged off in a
corner along with a few old sleds that I am sure must have been Mr. Cooper’s
when he was a child. There were beach chairs and boxes of their
children’s old toys along with a few pieces of furniture that must have been
family heirlooms. The most interesting of the attic treasures belonged,
not to the hardware store or the Cooper’s, but to previous tenants.
Behind crooks and crannies, I had discovered old newspaper scraps, a well-worn
paper bag with several silver spoons, and my favorite, a wooden gunshot box
filled with letters. So far, I had read only a few of them. They
were letters sent from a soldier to his wife during a war. They were
magical.
Upon my arrival, I headed over to where I had
hidden the box of letters and began to pick up where I had left off during my
last visit. However, I was only in the attic for about ten minutes before
I heard voices coming from outside. Curiosity caused me to head to the
window to see what all the racket was about.
Encouraged by the gloriously warm weather, a group of children had descended
upon the vacant lot next door to play. I watched them in their
shirtsleeves and sneakers playing what appeared to be kickball. Their
exuberance was uplifting to watch. The simple pleasure of playing ball
with a group of friends made my heart ache for the uncomplicated beauty of
childhood. Watching them reminded me of how Branson and I would have been
at their age, without a care in the world.
Unexpectedly, I was pulled from my thoughts by
the sound of something above me. I peered down to see the children running
towards the store, and it suddenly occurred to me what had happened.
Their ball was missing. It was on the roof.
There was a flurry of activity from inside the
store beneath my feet. I stood alongside the window just out of sight and
watched as the storeowner, Mr. Cooper, emerged from the side door. He was
an older man, probably in his sixties, with a short trimmed beard and a funny handlebar
mustache. Every Christmas he dressed as Santa Claus and gave out treats
to the children. He sponsored a fall festival with hayrides and apple
bobbing each year, and in the spring, he held gardening workshops. People
loved him. It was no surprise that Branson wanted to work for him season
after season.
Two stories below, the children pulled at Mr.
Cooper, pointing toward the roof. He got down on his knees to speak with
them at their level. I could see they were laughing, and by the smiles on
their faces, I knew that no one would be in trouble for kicking the
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