When I was young and we used to go to my Grandma and Grandad Tingley's house, I would often venture upstairs to the attic. The doorway to the attic was a small door inside one of the bedrooms. The ceiling in the attic was pitched with the roof, so even I had to duck down to move around up there. The attic was filled with treasures. I never ventured further than the bookshelves up there, though. (Now I wish I had explored more) I would sit up there and read the "Reader's Digest Condensed Books" that my grandparents had stored. At the age of 8 or 9, these were really great books to read and I loved being able to escape to the solitude of the attic. I wish I could paint or draw the picture that is in my mind of the bookshelves in the attic, although I think that our memories are more special to us individually than trying to share them with others. Do you know what I mean? You probably wouldn't feel as "warm" about this memory as I do, because you didn't experience it. (Although my siblings and parents might have experienced it...I dunno!) Just rambling thoughts on this nice fall day.