When Papa Lived in the Attic

Fathers are special to the women of their family, as this personal insight by Oneta Aldrich Dernelle reveals.

When I was a child, every spring I would contract some illness. Mostly, it was colds or flu, but when I was eight years old, it was something much more serious—scarlet fever. I had a hint of how serious it was when I overheard the doctor conferring with my mother after he had examined me: “Send her to the contagious hospital right away!” he ordered.
“No,” Mama replied, firmly. “I won’t send her to that pest house.”

“If you don’t, you’ll lose her . . . and maybe one or two of your other girls as well,” he warned. “I can’t put it any stronger than that!”

“There’s a bigger chance of losing her if I send her to that terrible place,” Mama insisted. “No, I’ll take care of her myself.”

Unable to change Mama’s mind, the doctor left. Soon afterward a man came by and tacked up a sign on our front door: “Quarantined.” Our whole family would be confined to the house for weeks.

Now Papa needed every cent he could earn to support us, so he couldn’t live under quarantine and stay out of work. But he couldn’t afford to pay room and board elsewhere, either. It was decided he would live in the attic. The door from our regular living quarters to the attic was sealed off. The only way for Papa to reach his new home was to climb a long ladder leaned against the outside of the house. He carried up a portable kerosene stove, some canned goods and utensils.

Downstairs, things changed, too. I was put in my parents’ bedroom. My four teenage sisters shared the back bedroom. Rosie, 18, Violet, 17, Iva, 16 and Ella, 14, all slept sideways across one bed!

They didn’t seem to mind. I often heard laughter and singing coming from that room. Sometimes Mama quietened them down because she thought the noise bothered me, but it didn’t. I liked hearing those happy sounds.

Mama gave me excellent care. She changed the bedsheets every morning, bathed me, fed me special food on her best dishes and kept a close watch on my temperature. Meantime, Papa left for work every morning before I was awake. Every night, as he climbed back up the ladder to the attic, he stopped by my window to wave to me. Smiling broadly, he would “speak” to me through the glass with exaggerated sign language. Seeing him was the highlight of my day.

Of course, Papa wasn’t allowed to come into the house. But late one night after I had begun to get better, I heard his voice. Peeking through the bedroom door, I was surprised to see him with Mama, sitting at the kitchen table, holding hands.
“Papa!” I exclaimed.

“Back to bed, Honey,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you’re almost well.”
The next day Mama showed me the reason Papa had broken quarantine: a bright new ring to celebrate their 20th wedding anniversary. (No wonder he wanted to keep working!) She’d worn a narrow, gold ban all those years. But now, with pride, she held out her left hand to me, to admire her new ring etched with tiny roses. It became her prized possession, worn until she died.

Not long afterward, the doctor declared me well. The quarantine sign was removed from our door. Papa moved downstairs, and my sisters and I returned to school.

Looking back now, I don’t remember feeling really sick. What I do recall, however, was the love and attention my family lavished on me, and the fun and laughter I heard in our house.
But the thing that stands out most clearly in my mind is Papa smiling at me through the window while climbing the ladder back to the attic.

I have learned through the years that a father’s presence is ever-abiding. The memory of him is with you forever. He may not be with you in the physical sense, but he is eternally in your heart.

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