Tragedy, Comedy, Drama...although we live on a small scale, there are days I think all this would make a good movie, especially with the scene-changes and tensions of Life In Between.
The woodshop-turned cottage is effectively our residence now. However, with no plumbing and limited storage space, we still make several trips a day to the elderly farmhouse-turned-outhouse/storage-shed. We tend to enter the old structure with much fear and trembling, due in part to the ice-cave-like aura and also to the magnified reality of dilapidation and decay.
There is one among us who remains utterly unconcerned: Fionn, our feline companion and erstwhile Mighty Hunter.
He LOVES the old house, so much so that he leaps toward the door at the slightest chance that one of his Funny Monkeys might be headed Over There. To us, it is a place of Splendid Romping, a veritable circus of delights. In spite of my begrudging allowance of feline access to the warmth of our new-house bedroom, he often lays a claim on the unheated old house as his preferred nocturnal den.
We alternate between references. Sometimes the old place is "The Outhouse." Sometimes it's "The Slough of Despond." Lately, due to Fionn's ridiculous habits, we've also taken to calling it The Cat-House.
Every day we transfer a few carefully-chosen belongings from old space to new. It is an arduous process, as it requires interaction with dust and mold and the accumulated grime of a falling-apart house far too close to a dirt road. Three days ago, we brought over an armful of favourite sweaters and a cedar blanket-box. Two days ago, we ceremoniously unscrewed our old-fashioned coffee-grinder from the wall and found a new home for it, clamped to an open pantry shelf. Yesterday, I made a raid on the half-frozen canned goods on our old kitchen shelves.
I was looking for canned fruit for a little late-winter treat. I knew there was a jar of peaches somewhere, if I could stand the dust and cold long enough to spelunk. Eventually I found them behind the hominy, mango chutney, black olives, and a big can of lychees. (evolving localvore that I am, I don't even want to think about the "food miles" on that little assortment!)
I came back to the cottage triumphant, brandishing my find and proclaiming, "I found Peaches in the Cat-house!" My words tumbled awkwardly through the air, unsure of a safe landing. I reconsidered my declaration and began to laugh-- it sounded like the title of a dirty film. What could I do? I laughed some more, tackled the jar with a dust-rag, removed that dirty film, and enjoyed those ice-cold peaches!