Stuff

Grandchildren

I found crayons in my sugar cannister. It made me smile.

Growing Up

Tonight Andrew goes on his first scout campout. And, after today, he's officially a sixth grader. Which means that Jr. High is only one year away. A year and a summer. Becoming a deacon is less than ten months away. And today he put on a long-sleeved shirt for school, and lots of cologne. He said he wants the ladies to remember him.

Writing

So close. So close. A week ought to do it.

Books

Mostly, I love them. Afterall, nine months out of the year I help struggling readers learn how to read and try to convince them that books are their friends. I put myself to sleep every night reading a book. And my life-long dream is to have my name on a book cover or two. So it's not like I'm illiterate. I just like my books in some level of moderation--defined by their ability to fit in their allotted space. If you've been to our little house any time lately, you'll understand what I mean. Not only is there a 12 x 8 ft. wall dedicated to them, but there are no fewer than eight other bookcases scattered throughout the house. Half the storage space in the garage is filled with boxes labeled "books." Children's books, teen books, Christmas books, and mostly just overflow books. No room for the Christmas ornaments and out-of season clothes, because the storage space is filled with books.

And that is not all. Several months ago I swapped out the two shelf cookbook bookcase for a three shelf one. Now it's bulging, with cookbooks stacked on top-and growing. Cookbooks about cooking pasta, cooking Chinese, cooking with chocolate, seven hundred cookies made from one recipe, dinner on the table in five minutes or less, meals from scratch, meals from a can. Meals using twinkies. You name it, we have it. I must be a gourmet cook, right? Wrong. I think someone is hoping that the power of suggestion will make a difference.

But that is not all. My bedroom is stacked with more books, piled high in front of the window so that I can't reach to open the blinds. And the piles grow by day. Partly, I think, because my husband is trying to prevent me finding new homes for the homeless. If they're there, beside his bed, he can keep an eye on them. They're safe.

Nearly every day another box or two of books enters the house and takes up residence on the kitchen counter until I can find a new home for them. Yesterday was no different. Two boxes of books (and other miscellanea) came home. As my sweet husband showed me today's loot--the lighted nativity set, the Christmas trays, the interactive baseball, golf, and fishing calendars with little dice-like numbers to change the date each day (would someone really want to do that?) , the book about internet pornography, and the book entitled 365 Salutes to America--he gleefully pulled out the bottom book. Before I could tell him that we all ready had a copy, he said, "And the best thing is this. It's just like the one we have, so we can give it to one of our kids (and he named a couple). Or maybe (he gets that glazed look in his eyes) we should keep it so we can have one copy upstairs and one copy downstairs." NOOOOOOOOOOO!