Cobwebs happen

I was quietly brooming the edges of our ceilings this morning, knocking down cobwebs.

Now, when your heart’s desire is to live in an older, ‘character’ house, you have to accept the fact that cobwebs happen – yet another of life’s little vicissitudes.

Photo credit: here

Mulling over what I knew about cobwebs, I was wondering if the new woodstove was causing more of them to happen, or just

making them more noticeable because smoke always escapes whenever I put in another piece of wood.

I’d worked my way around the bedroom, the home office and the alcove leading to the living room. The hub lay on the couch recuperating from the morning’s snow shoveling all ruddy cheeked and soaking up the warmth and quiet when I entered, brooming.

My eyes swept past him to the daily drifts of dog hair. Later, I told myself. I’ll just quietly attend to the cobwebs and not shatter his rest with our noisy vacuum. Pretty sure he’d followed my glance and read my mind. He seemed to snuggle deeper into the cushions with a satisfied sigh.

Halfway around the room, I chanced to think out loud, “I wonder why they call them cobwebs?”

Came the reply, “those spider webs? I don’t know.”

We chatted briefly about how many there were under the house (where he had spent extensive hours on the weekend, chasing down a furnace problem.) And whether they build them in draughty spots for catching prey. And if the new woodstove was ramping up the action, or just making them more obvious.

“Anyway,” says I, “why cobwebs? I mean, I don’t even know what a cob is. I’ve sure never seen a cob making one.”

He fell silent, as I hoisted my broom back to the task. The wood fire crackled comfortingly. The dogs lay curled on their respective floor pads and all was quiet and cosy. Several pleasant minutes passed in sweet enjoyment and quiet contemplation.

“I’ve never seen a mo,” the hub said at last.

My broom halted in mid swipe. “I beg your pardon? A mo? What do they look like?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen one.”

My brain jogged in several directions, feeling lost. “Then wha . . . why . . . huh? So what is a mo?”

“I don’t know. I just know they have hair.”

Yep. He’s a man of few words, but they’re cherce.