Quam Id

It was something like that. The little cottage was down the road from my childhood home and a sign hung crookedly proclaiming its name. I think I questioned as a young girl what exactly "Quam Id" meant. Aunt Clara would staunchly reply, "means, this is it!" I googled it yesterday, and I came up with no clues as to what it might actually mean; although to be fair, the sign is long gone, as is Aunt Clara, and my childhood memory of the wordage may not be entirely accurate. The smell of the cottage, opened only for short periods of time during the summer months, is an odor I'll not forget. Musty, mixed with moth balls. My little throat would itch, and I would sneeze, but I'd happily sit and visit with Auntie while munching on treats she'd brought with her from her Toledo home. Memories of those times are conjured every time I enter the vintage 1951 Trotwood trailer we found at a thrift store for a steal. The smell, I think, is the trigger. The lovely relic has graced our backyard for two summers now. We've used it to transport catering goods for a wedding, it's hosted reunions of our adult children's friends, and countless games of othello, complete with french pressed coffee in vintage mugs. The smell doesn't seem to overpower anyone but me. The little camper we refer to as "the cabin" is about to made over. Unfortunately, finances dictate that it be a cosmetic redo. I ask those of you with purist hearts to look away as I post pictures of the progress. Someday perhaps we'll be able to do a complete renovation, but for now we want it to be a comfortable playhouse/guest space, using creativity, what we as pack rats have on hand, and very little cash. This is it! Beginning stages. All the cupboard doors are off and hardware removed. Everything's been wiped down several times (I must say the odor is already vastly improved). I wish I'd taken photos before I took the cupboard doors off. But you get the idea, yes? Now it's time to prime. )