It is around seven o’clock and perhaps I wish I were still snoozing; my eyes are tired, but when I close them, I think, “Okay, what now?” I am wavering this morning about starting a diet cold turkey, which reminds me I ate the last of it last everning. The Der Bingle crew has done so well and I know it is for my own good . . . but my spirits are low, my motivation is low and Idon’t wanna. Of course, if I do actually diet, my personality will be so irritating . . . not that anyone would notice since I am already off the scales. Oops. Scales. Inadvertant punning rears its ugly head.

Well, here I go on a test run through the kitchen.

Oh, dear, a scary thought just popped into my head: What if I wrote down everything I ate here. I could eat anything I wanted but I had to write it down . . . here. Of course, I could lie. Almost panicked.

Yes, today was bag day – or day two – of the Catholic rummage sale. I usually try very hard to use every cubic inch in my bag by putting one thing inside another and soft compressible things around hard ones. Then I give an extra donation because it’s not in being greedy or cheap; the fun in in the challenge.

I didn’t feel like that today, but I did give a donation anyway. And I found quite a few things to either tie onto Christmas gifts or to use to make little Christmas candy boxes for neighbors and such. And I stuffed the old tin lid for a pan in my  bag. Yesterday, I just let it go by – it would have cost perhaps a nickel –  because I thought “Oh, I’m done with collecting.”

Old kitchen things in my visual field are soothing – they remind me of Grandma and the old kitchen when I was little . . . which, by the way, is the same kitchen now that I am older. Some of them I use – potato ricer and the old two cup measure. Some I don’t use because I don’t know what they are. Some I tie on the Christmas tree up in the sitting room.

So there it was today – the pan lid, ignored and unwanted. And I put it in my bag. I will use it to set over something I don’t need a tighter cover for. It’s all lumpy and bent and just the way I like it. Aluminum cake covers are great too; I have some of those – can’t have too many. Some of the stuff has wooden handles painted red, and some painted sage green – a color that’s come back into vogue.

We try to keep the meat tenderizers – especially the one with the metal inserts – out of Summer’s easy reach. She has a temper.

Well, they aren’t really old ladies; they are younger than I for the most part. They live in close proximity to Quentin and he helps with taking their trash out and other things . . . and at Christmas they give him cookies. That is how I heard about them. His wife mentioned the older women in the neighborhood, and in my mind I immediately thought of the little old ladies in “The Producers” – one of my favorite movies. The original, the one with Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder.

Well, of course, I was saying “little old ladies” and his wife was nicely trying to steer me to the realizaion that they really weren’t, there were mother-aged older ladies. That doesn’t amuse me; little old ladies amuses me. And, because I want to, I am sticking to it.

But, anyway, this is the point of it now: Quentin has weeds spreading in his yard, especially in one corner. A lot of weeds . . . and he called me to ask about just putting rock salt down. I don’t know, but that sounds odd if you want anything else to grow. Besides rock salt kills grass; I don’t know that it kills cockroach-strength weeds.

We (he and I) once put everything killer along the fence line, but we didn’t realize our nozzle was leaking and in a few days we could follow every path we had taken as we went to different places to spray. It wasn’t good, and in the grand scheme of things, it was not particularly bad . . . but it was impressive.

I realized right then that anyone doing anything nefarious ought not to carry weed/grass killer. But that doesn’t partain to this; it is more in line with my fantasy criminal and wartime partisan activities.

Quentin still has his weeds, and since I, too, have this problem, I said I would research it. The next day, a busy one  – the day after the Summer birthday, I was mowing the yard (lawns do not have weeds) and suddenly thought, “Quentin’s little old ladies: I bet they know something about grass and weeds and gardening.”

I was ichatting (video and typing) with Bing’s Georgia buddy when Quentin called him . . . so he put the Q on speaker and I could listen in. Technically, Quentin could hear me also if I spoke really loudly . . . but then so could anyone else. So I typed my little old lady idea to the fellow in Georgia  who passed it on vocally to Quentin. But, I forgot, Quentin is the type who doesn’t want to be a bother and he won’t ask them . . . never mind that they would get such a kick out of helping him. Maybe he is afraid that this quid pro quo might jeopardize his Christmas cookie haul.

Anyway, that is my project – to find out about weed control and grass regrowth before he pours the rock salt. After all, he himself admitted the idea of a rock garden in the back yard did not go over well.

Coming to a close  . . . We have had one of our eclectic birthdays here – a little Kentucky Fried Chicken, which she loves, some pizza of which she is fond, the cake – an Indiana Jones motif. Presents – Civilization 3 for DS . . . and now her grandpa is looking forward to checking it out in a couple of weeks. Alison set the cake on fire when she was lighting the sparkler/candles.

There was ice cream. Oh, and I have a video, but I think I need to edit it before I post . . . seems someone swore when the candles re-lit.

Summer and Sydney

Summer and the fire truck

Summer ready to go to the Apple Festival some years ago – maybe third grade, maybe second.

A Kodak video moment: Yes it is grainy and out-of-focus; I must look at the settings. And yes, we have been trying to get her to agree to a hair trim.

Today, Summer is 12 and as my own personal gift to her, I will not pun . . . about her name, that is. Heavens, that little vow has left me with a blank in my mind. No, wait, I am starting to feel it; that little vow is making me want to pun so much. My tongue is ready to go – it’s twitching. Rats, I should have thought this through.

I can do this. Yeah, with duct tape over my mouth. Gee, this is one of those situations when I am glad duct tape replaced chicken wire (oops, mistyped myself – meant baling wire) as the fix-all option.

Okay, so we are back at Summer being 12. When she first came here, nine years ago this very week, she was not at eye-level with the kitchen counters. Now, she is taller than I and when I look at her, I can’t believe how short I am: Short Grandma . . . short little round grandma . . . .auuugggghhhhhhh. Aunt Bea. Oh, my.

Look! How easily I moved the attention from Summer to . . . ME. Actually, I think she has inherited that talent so when we are together, it is interesting.

Hmmmmm. Do I have the energy and dedication to semi live-blog her birthday?

Here’s a random picture to start: The Season of Peeps Surgical Experimentation:

It has been dry here, dry enough that Summer and I hauled a sprinkler through some shrubs to reach a certain part of the yard and then got wet while adjusting it. But this morning we have rain. It looked like it would be quite a storm but that was not the case for us – a couple of smart lightning bolts and some rain that smelled sweet, as if it carried the cut grasses of the prairie with it. It was most relaxing, and for no necessary reason I lit an oil lamp and carried it to my porch window sill.

Yesterday afternoon when I went to the nursing home, Emory wasn’t feeling well and was going to stay in his room and rest during dinner, so Kathryn and I headed out for a restaurant meal. Albion, however, is a small town platted in the center of the county to be the government center. It has one stop light and unfortunately the counter center was mostly swampy land and the roads that meander around it are paved Indian trails.

It is a little difficult to get yourself established on the surveyor’s grid system when the area was a marsh/swamp/bog when they went through – the town was plopped there later when towns already up and running couldn’t get together on who should be the county seat.

What this means is that we got lost coming back from the restaurant after we had already been wandering around lost on “s” curves going to the restaurant. We  thought it was west of town – but it was west of the construction. But anyway we found this little local place where they sell fish dinners;  I think you identify l a “local secret” eating place is by looking for a building that appears crummy on the outside.

Inside it was clean with big windows looking out on the lake. It also appeared to have been added on in stages –  table space by table space –   as the bar business expanded to service more people who wanted to eat. The bar actually was apparently really local at the beginning because even now it has about six stools – and no window overlooking the lake.

They were doing a brisk take out business and had a brand-new deck with screened in dining area. From that you stepped down to an au natural deck and then onto the pier that kinda, sort of slanted downward to the west. A wheeled cooler would not sit well on this pier, unless you chocked the wheels. Otherwise it would be an impromptu performance of “Diving for Beer” – but then again maybe they just tie a rope on a six pack and let it hang off the pier in the water. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why the pier slopes.

Hey, the sun is out.

YouTube wasn’t processing, so let’s try Google:

New gadget from Der Bingle for my birthday. Yea for AJ.

Yesterday was a day of change – I thought only for my daughter-in-law who had very extreme and extensive dental work – but I am the one who KNOWS it is the same person, but whose eyes are telling them differently. I am amazed at my difficulty of listening to my mind and invalidating the information from my eyes.

But wait, this new person just asked about Wal-Mart. Augggggghhhhhhhhhhh.

I am going to sit in the car and read, but not that Dostoevsky book, The Adolescent, which Cameron has pushed on me. I think it sucks. He says, “Grandma, you insisted I read books – The Eagle Has Landed, The Day of the Jackal, To Kill a Mockingbird . . . ”

Cameron, Cameron . . . that was to get you to feel the pleasures of a story well-told – to see what people could do with English. It is not the story; it is the telling of it. It has always been the words. Where, where in a translation of Dostoevsky do you find a phrase that echoes in your mind?

So, I guess after all these years of reading, I finally realize I don’t care for the story, but the way it is expressed. That is why I can so easily flip to the last pages to see what the ending is when the writing is lacking.

Some people think that is sacrilegious; I think it is good sense.

Sad.

That’s what we are here; that’s what people are feeling all over the country – a big sad.

Thomas Bickle died yesterday afternoon. He died in his dad’s arms. He was not in pain. That is what his mother, Sarah, wrote in her post.

I have been following their story. They don’t know of me and I never met Thomas – nor Sarah, nor Scott. I never smelled the sun in that red hair. I feel a big sad; they feel – God, I don’t know what, but it’s got to be a huge, consuming emotion.

I’m going to be quiet now, and look at Thomas’ light on my window sill. It’s reaching out like a lighthouse.