Hurrah For The Pencil

I have always loved pencils, probably because I like to write. It was difficult for me to graduate to the ink pen because I like being able to edit my words at any given time. I grew up in the era of no computers so the eraser was the first delete button.

My very favorite pencil was made by a company called, The Empire. They had wonderful square erasers and I haven’t been able to find them in years. I have half of one that I have saved mostly so I can show people trying to find more of them. The reason they are so wonderful is because the eraser is a bit bigger than the regular cylinder shaped ones you mostly see so they last much longer.

Perhaps they went out of fashion because the fit on erasers don’t work with them. In most cases you didn’t have to have them anyway because they last longer. Maybe the price of rubber went up. Who knows? And seriously, they have made the fit on erasers so inferior they crack down the side and don’t stay on anyway.

Here are some pictures of cool pencils with larger eraser:

http://www.brandnamepencils.com/types/oversized_ferrule.shtml


I prefer to write with pencils when the tip is slightly rounded, about half way down. Too sharp and it pokes holes in your paper. Too flat and it doesn’t work so well either.

I carry a short pencil in my purse at all times to write in my date book. I know some of y’all have moved on to the electronic gadgets and I do use my cell phone for reminders but one time my PDA bit the dust and ate all my data so I no longer trust electronic gadgets to store all of my information.

I tried carrying a mechanical pencil and do have some I keep at home but find the points a bit too sharp for my taste.

You are probably asking yourself, “Is she really writing an entire blog about pencils?” Actually… yes.

And just when you thought I had said all there was to say about the wooden writing tool, here is more. Did you know you can do an eraser transplant? Yes you can. You will need a pair of needle nose pliers, a pencil that is too short but has a good eraser and a long pencil with the eraser down to the nub. I should really do a video for this to show you properly but oh well.

With the tip of the pliers pull the metal away from the bad eraser all around until it falls out. Do the same with the good one. Match up the good eraser with the good pencil, squeeze the metal closed with your pliers and voila you have a good pencil.

If you find a pencil under the couch and the eraser has dried out and not working anymore, take an emery board or piece of fine grade sand paper and gently rough up all sides. It will now work good as new.

Here’s an entire forum just for pencils:

http://www.penciltalk.org/comments-and-questions

If you think I’m obsessed, this guy writes every blog about pencils. He is truly a pencilphile. If that isn’t a real word it should be. Write that down.

http://www.pencilrevolution.com/2006/01/

Native Little People

Most have heard of the Irish Little People but did you know that the Native Americans also have small folk?

When I was a little girl, maybe about four or five I would spend hours in the bathroom talking to my imaginary friends. Some children have one, most have none but I had three. Three has always been my favorite number, not sure if it is due to my amount of friends or if I had a trio of them because of loving that digit.

At any rate my friends were not your ordinary mates. My best buds were small, maybe about a foot tall; hard to say since I was knee high to a grasshopper at the time.

One was an old man with long gray hair, one was a woman and the third one I don’t remember as much but I think he was a younger man. I mostly remember the elder one. I don’t remember what they said but I recall having many conversations with them.

At bath time I would stay in until my fingers and toes looked like raisins because I was having long discussions with my neighbors that lived in the toilie room. My grandmother would ask, “Are you ready to get out yet?”

“Not yet.”

One day my grandmother asked me who I was talking to in the bathroom and why I was in there so long. I’m sure she’s thinking I might need medical attention or at the very least a remedy for constipation.

I told her that I had friends in there that I talked to. She asked me about them and I described my wee pals that lived in the bathtub.

She told me I was truly blessed to have a visit from the little people.

Here’s a link if you want more information about the native forest folk:

http://www.firstpeople.us/FP-Html-Legends/TheLittlePeople-Choctaw.html

My Ghosts Like To Smoke

My sons swore up and down we had a ghost in our house when they were growing up. Maybe I’m just too busy or spirits only talk to children but Mr. Ghost hasn’t shown himself to me personally. Thank God. I’d probably pee my pants if he did and perhaps he’s a considerate fellow and realizes this. Hey, it could happen.

Before we bought this house it belonged to a suicidal young man who apparently had a drug problem. Perhaps he still does… sort of.

On occasion I smell the faint aroma of cigarette smoke in the two back rooms of my house. I thought it was my next-door neighbor smoking outside but we have new windows and I’ve actually gone out to check and don’t see anyone lighting up. Early on I also thought it was lingering odors in the carpet but that has been replaced and the walls have all been repainted.

As far as cool breezes I am cold natured and feel them all the time so if a spook is visiting I wouldn’t know the difference between a cold flash and a spirit. I know at my age I’m supposed to be having hot flashes and not cool snaps but my body didn’t get that memo.

I’ve heard of deceased family members coming to people in their sleep to give them advice but if my grandparents are trying to give me guidance I’m not getting the message. It’s usually silly stuff going on that doesn’t make any sense. Oh and in one dream my grandmother was smoking a cigarette and she didn’t do that while alive. Not sure what tobacco has to do with my poltergeists but they all seem to have that nasty habit.

Being dead probably gives you an advantage in that you can puff away to your heart’s content without worry about getting cancer since they are already ashes themselves in many cases.

Which brings me to another thought; I read that some religions, including protestant, didn’t/don’t believe in cremation because of the whole rising from the dead thing and if your body was burned and especially if it were sprinkled willy-nilly how would Jesus gather you up and take you to the Pearly Gates?

Some folks truly have too much time on their hands if they are worrying so much about their bodies after they have passed on. I guess they didn’t think about the fact that they would be decomposed by then and not in the best of shape to meet their maker anyway. I think they need to watch a few zombie movies to fully appreciate that thought.

This makes me think of another story. My mind is truly rambling today. I promise I didn’t make this one up it was in a newspaper a few years back. An elderly woman was upset because the cemetery accidently buried her husband in the wrong plot. It seems they put him next to another woman and Mrs. Dismayed was all a twitter saying that Mr. Dismayed was unfaithful during their married life and now he’s lying with another woman even after death. Bless her heart.

What's That Smell?

My husband can douse himself in gasoline, kerosene or any of the other toxic petroleum products men use in garages and it doesn’t bother him a bit, but let me use fingernail polish remover or paint my nails and he can’t take it.

I can give myself a manicure three hours before he comes home and he’ll be frowning at the front door, “What’s that horrible smell?”

“I’ve been delousing skunks dear, I hope you don’t mind.”

It’s one of life’s great mysteries. One person’s foul is another persons normal.

Funny thing is he doesn’t mind it quite so much if I mention going to the salon to have them done to save him from the ghastly fumes. Suddenly he doesn’t mind so much.

Did I mention my husband is a tightwad of the first degree?

He’ll just go to his workshop and swab turpentine on his clothing to mask the aroma. Then I’m the one holding a handkerchief over my nose.

“What’s that smell?”