Today

Dismal morning fog…

Rainbow brightens afternoon…

Wishing it lasted…

Add 3272...

Ground Hogs Day 2003. Five years worth of rubber bands from the daily newspaper with maybe a few thrown in from brocolli or asparagus bundles.  

3272 days later... something doesn't add up... wouldn't the circumference of the rubber band ball increase in the same proporation as the circumference of our Jelly Belly bellies?

Tiny Pencils

While I procrastinate about writing my own book, my son continues to work on his. While I sit in my comfortable office, use a computer, access the internet, and pull from life's continuing experiences, he works in his tiny quarters, using tiny pencils, pulling ideas from memories or fantasies. I make excuses for not writing but he prods along, producing volumes of pencil written drafts and artwork. My current commitment is to process his words and send him encouragement and hope. Look for his fantasy novels soon. And if you have some encouragement and hope to share with him, let me know.

Summer... Gone In a Flash

I picked up my camera today, blew off the dust and checked the batteries. Checking the contents, I see the last photos dated back to the beginning of summer when Little J and I took a trip to Virginia. What's wrong with this picture (or lack of pictures I should say)? It's not that I haven't taken any photos. There are a few "Where Am I"s posted on Facebook, taken with the iPhone, mostly at the prompting of Little J.

So what's up with this lack of enthusiasm to post here at Wittbits? It's kind of hard to explain but those who are close to me could give it a good guess. For the rest of you, let's just say I've been a bit bothered, bewildered and befuzzled. Sometimes life just gets that way.

So here we are at the beginning of another school year for Little J. 3rd Grade brings a new wealth of homework assignments but it seems they are starting gently. This weekend he had one task... make a collage of the things he likes, the purpose being something to stash in the front of his writing journal. 3rd Graders must write every day. So... I could use a little lesson here. Grandmas should be writing every day too. It's good for the soul.

Yesterday Little J and I got out a few of our treasures and some old magazines. Armed with scissors and glue sticks, we put together our favorite things collage. JJ's is a bit sparse but that's OK. The things he chose are a pretty good selection of just where he is at today... Yugioh cards, pizza, pancakes and fond remembrances of his big trip. The big green bookmark centered on the page... let's just say he really misses his uncle.

Now about my collage. Let's just say... I have a lot of catching up to do with my writing... and life.

Cleanliness Is Next To…

A while back while on a quest for products to do the annual obligatory spring cleaning, I started my search with window cleaner in the aisle of Target, I heard a voice behind me. It was kind of an anonymous whisper, “Vinegar.” I turned around to see a 50ish kind of woman with long graying hair. In defiance I picked up the manufactured window cleaner containing ammonia and who knows what else that is bad for you.

Around the corner, I sought out bathroom cleaner. The voice again behind me squeaked, “Vinegar.” I recognized the plaid flannel shirt and worn out jean and shoved a can of aerosoled bathroom cleaner into the basket. I threw in some extra strength toilet bowl cleaner for good measure.

The shelves on the next aisle held a broad assortment of kitchen cleaners. I wanted something all purpose. Behind me again, I heard “Vinegar.” The voice was a bit louder and more persistent this time. I didn’t bother to look at the perpetrator and instead grabbed two bottles of bleach scented kitchen cleaners… one for counters and a stronger one for floors.

Pet odor eliminator was next on the list and the orange scented spray bottle of deodorizer seemed like it might do the trick. BUT, there she was right behind me. This time I beat her to it. “Vinegar,” I blurted out. She rolled her eyes in response and taunted, “No, baking soda.”

Funny thing, spring cleaning has been a slow process this year. Part of the reasoning is that I work fewer hours at “paying” work so now the house work doesn’t need to be a frantic weekend activity. Instead, I have a commitment to do at least one task on that spring cleaning list every day off from work. The list sits on the edge of the desk, most of the easy ones having already been tackled. What leaped out at me today was the dreaded window cleaning. Unfortunately, when I checked out the cleaning supply cabinet, I found someone had raided it. The ammonia cleaner was gone. The voice came back… “Vinegar.” Knowing a trip to the store would sabotage the agenda, I looked for a recipe on the internet: 1/4 cup undiluted white vinegar, 1 tbsp cornstarch, 1 quarter warm water to be applied with a spray bottle and wiped dry with crumpled newspaper. With Monday newspaper short on pages and the Sunday news long gone to the recycle bin, I didn’t get far. The patio door and three kitchen windows are indeed streakless but with my new excuse of environmental consciousness, I refuse to get into the paper towels.

Now would someone please tell me how to get the newspaper ink out from under my fingernails?

Rusty Secrets

Rusty bear and I have shared this journey through life for 61 years since his arrival in a package from Dad on my first birthday. I've lost count how many times he's been packed away to move from house to house. Over the years he has been a steady comfort, sharing pillows from crib to king size. (OK, so I don't sleep with him anymore but he does sit on my nightstand when darkness comes).

His body holds the secrets of our parallel lives. The fur that is matted and worn, bald in some spots, honors years of toddler cuddling, tweenage tea parties, teenage rants, newlywed neglect, new mom blues, and diminished house cleaning attempts. I remember when Mom gave him new button eyes in his early years; now he has only one, barely hanging by a thread. The zippered pocket sewn inside his left leg in the thirteenth year, held a stash of teenage secrets. Rusty and I may be well worn around the edges but as long as the stuffing doesn't fall out, I think the secrets are safe.

Birthday Cards

I won’t see my son on my birthday this year; nor will I see him on his birthday five days later. But, he sends a card, a card that was artfully done with the only tools he has, short colored pencils and cheap white all purpose paper. There is a message attached to the card. He apologizes for not having enough money to buy me a ticket. As I look at the cartoon, I smile then laugh at the humor. The picture is worth much more to me than a ticket to the most costly of all concerts. Even more important, it appeases my sorrow knowing that my son can still maintain his sense of humor in his sad situation.