I’m living in the same house I grew up in, but a lot of the good stuff has been gutted. Foremost in my memory these past weeks is the attic fan.
Located in the entryway was about a 3-foot-square louvre opening to the attic covering the massive fan that cooled the entire house. Only Paw Paw could turn it on. I believe it had pull chains that operated the excitement of the whomp, whomp, whomp, then it was smooth sailing after it got going. With windows open to the night air, the breeze would make my curtains stand straight out.
Our house was completed two months prior to my birth for my grandfather to live in with my grandmother, my mother and her now four children. It was a well thought out plan with huge open louvre gables at each end of the attic for attic cooling. The overhangs were deeper than most and offered a shield from the sun by design.
The rooms were laid out so that if all the doors were open, each room would feel the attic fan. Perfect circulation and a perfect oval for whatever childhood game required running from another and hiding. There was no air-conditioning — I don’t think it was invented then — but somehow with a few individual room ceiling fans, we stayed cool.
I believe the fans were made in Memphis and they were the best around, ugly black motors about as big as a large sauce pan and real wooden blades; nothing fancy, just functional, and they would still be there except when my sister moved here in 1999, she gutted all the ugly fans and put in central air-conditioning.
We went from pulling a chain to climbing attic stairs and changing filters.
Having an AC man come out and check on the unit’s gas, clean out the thing with a water hose and then go up in the attic, he found that someone didn’t close the filter door so the house was sucking in all the hot attic air. No telling how high the repair bill will be, not to mention the energy bills.
I don’t remember the old attic fan ever needing a repair; it only had a belt that I saw, and a handy person could replace that.
In other areas of the house, we had fans sitting on desks or tables. They were ugly black things with a grill, so you didn’t need to remind children to keep their fingers off. They had the force of a car engine, slinging knives around — ugly yet functional. I’d entertain myself by talking into the fan, or opening my mouth and making my cheeks wobble. Listen, it was fun; you just had to be there.
Today I have a lovely small quiet sea foam green fan on my bedside table about 6 inches from my face. It carries the name of a well-known magazine, so it must be good. But it doesn’t make my curtains stand straight out, there is no whomp, whomp, whomp, and most of all, my Paw Paw isn’t there to pull the chain.
