“I had an assistant once who believed in fourth dimensional traps. They sprang up unannounced. You’d lay something down, go back to get it and find it missing. Then some time later, maybe even days, you’d find it, often in a totally unexpected place, sometimes in the same place. The thing had slipped into the fourth dimension and returned.” I wrote that in August of 2014.

I’ve almost always felt that I was, if not the sharpest, then at least one of the pointiest tacks in the box of life. As has been happening with my faulty misconception of being well read, however, I have discovered that as tacks go I might be fairly dull. Here’s a short tale of discovery to illustrate my point.

It looks to be a gray, dreary day this morning, but these days no day with rain is dreary. Rain is a thing to be celebrated. It’s a time of drought. Rain is relief. So, I’m willing to walk about wet if only it comes from rain falling from the sky. I’ll be happy and I’ll go about my day with a smile.

The redo of the guest rooms is down to decorations, putting up pictures. It’s a fun part. To ensure the area gets used while I wait for a guest to show up, I made one of the rooms a music room. To get furniture in the music room, I rotated chairs from the front room to the music room and from the bedroom to the front room. That little dance decluttered my bedroom, which is a nice side benefit.

I am going to pick a bone, and it mostly has to do with any food establishment where I prepay for my meal and before I close the transaction, I’m asked if I want to tip. I usually tip for service and the quality of the meal, but in this case the only service I’ve had so far is the person processing my order. In addition, I have to go get my own drink and find a place to sit. So, I find it difficult to understand who exactly I’m tipping. Granted, in some cases someone will bring me my food, but I’m simply a number on a placard, it’s not usually a long walk, and sometimes the food is to go.

The rain continues to fall, and my little gauge is now up to an inch and a half. When the sun comes up, I think I’m going to take a drive and see how the creeks are running. Although, slow and steady rains after months of dry days usually get soaked up by the parched ground. The gauges on my local river indicate an elevated flow, however, so I’m cautiously optimistic about the creeks.

There’s a gentle rain falling in the Hill Country, although I can only speak with confidence about my little patch of ground. We’ve had a good stretch of recent wet weather although no creeks are flowing from what I can see on drives around the area. It appears most of the water is soaking in which is certainly good for the plant life. I know my vegetation is in a state of green bliss. The rose on the front porch is blooming.

All the trees in our yard have a distinct lean to them. Years of buffeting by the southeasterly winds have bent them all to its will. One of the chinquapins we planted is now so sturdy of trunk that no effort on my part can shake the tree, but there it is, leaning to the soft persistence of a breeze. It’s the same with the burr, its branches stand out like banners in the wind, even when there is no wind.

It’s interesting to note how the life of a house changes as the life of the owners change. Sixteen years ago, our guest rooms were bustling with family and friends, and I actually worked in my upstairs office/library. Then grandkids grew up, friends moved, family moved in, family moved off, illness came, and death came knocking. My living area shrank and I was good with it, because it was manageable.

I took a field trip with a friend yesterday. We tromped through the woods. Talked about plants. Talked about trees. And talked about birds. Entirely satisfying. Then his wife cooked a lovely lunch, and we sat on his porch and looked at more trees and plants and birds. One of the birds was a screech owl which is not something you typically see at lunch. It was sitting in its nest box watching us.

I can tell you the story of nearly every tree and plant in my yard. I know from whence they came and when. I remember their struggles with heat and no water, with cold and no sun. I’ve covered them, watered them, trimmed them, and tended the dirt at their feet. I even know about the strangers who came in the bowels of birds or the mouths of squirrels. It’s a long running, flowering movie.

There’s a fine wind blowing this morning, with rain. But it’s only a tad. Nary enough to lift the red ring on the rain gauge that’s shows me the level. Still, cool air and moisture is a fine spring combination for the plants and trees and they’re all having a good time. The scarlet sage I transplanted has settled into its new ground in the north fence garden beneath the Chinquapin Oak. The Mealey Sage in the same garden is strong, tall and healthy as are the two Gregg’s Mist Flowers.

I couldn’t sleep at all last night, and I can’t really say why. I wish I was mulling over some huge philosophical issue of great importance to humankind, but it was just my brain refusing to disconnect. It happens occasionally, and I just let it ride and try to catch up the next night, and as I’m going through the following day I try to keep important decisions to a minimum because I’m probably tired.

The Two Day Two City Tour 2026 is in the books. Life on the road is a grind, and I’m glad to be home, he said with tongue firmly in cheek. Yesterday’s event was held inside because of rain with no amplification, which meant I didn’t get to use my new tremolo pedal, but it felt just like home because mostly I play in picker’s circles in people’s front rooms.

Day one of the 2026 Two Day Two City Tour (TDTCT) is over. My friend Rob McDonald joined me on stage at Folkfest in New Braunfels to replace the friend David Pagan originally planned. David threw out his back. The three of us make up a group when we play together that we’ve come to call the Withered Roots, because we’re all old. Yesterday’s show went on without much of a hitch and we even had a good crowd, mostly made up of friends, but there were some strangers who stuck around to hear us play and sing.

We’ve had days of rain and might have a few more. But the creek beds are still dry, and the lake levels low so no one’s celebrating. I think the storm to turn that tide will have to be epic, and even then, it might still fall short. Methinks it will be hard to overcome decreased rainfall and a population of thirty million people who like to drink water. That’s a lot of straws in the aquifer, and more are coming every day.

I stood on the porch yesterday and watched the rain start to fall. The leaf litter on the drive twitched with memories of life as the raindrops fell until the drops became a torrent and the leaves began to float. Then they huddled together to begin their journey to becoming organic matter, sending nutrients back to the parental trees who once bore them, decaying into a new life. A virtuous cycle.

It’s nice when you can get back to nature by simply walking into your yard. I suppose it’s nice to have a yard. Lots of people don’t and some that do, don’t really care that much about getting back to nature in them. It’s mostly ornamentation. But I’ve always found refuge in my yards. It was me and my plants, and it was fairly easy to figure out their wants and desires and keep them mostly happy.

Thoreau wrote about his trips down the Concord and Merrimac Rivers, Twain wrote about the Mississippi, John Graves said goodbye to the Brazos. It seems we’re always saying goodbye to our rivers as they ran in their natural states before industrialization and civilization swallows them whole. I feel fortunate to have canoed the Guadalupe in an almost natural state in the 1970s before it became a lazy river with wall-to-wall tubers.

I finished the documentary about Henry David Thoreau last night. I may have to go back and reread his work. I first encountered Thoreau in high school with Emerson, but they were simply characters in a parade of characters as we marched through the history of US literature and philosophy.  I don’t recall reading On Walden Pond or Civil Disobedience, but I probably read parts of them. Most of it, like thoughts on transcendentalism, simply became part of my patchwork quilt of a brain.