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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I bought nine plants yesterday. Four marigolds, three Spanish lavenders, and two prostrate rosemary’s. I planted them in groups because I think it will help them thrive to have a companion of the same species close at hand. After all, they grew up that way. I did the same last year with mealy sage a friend gifted me. I planted them in two groups, and they’re thriving.

Ah, the flowers I have known. Their memories dance in the garden of my mind. Azaleas in front of our second home in Pasadena. A lush, full coral vine in the backyard. Antique roses flanking the drive in Alvin. Johnny Jump Ups by the front porch. The Gulf Muhly we planted upon our arrival at our current home. The red rose, planted at the east end of the house, that grew to well over six feet before succumbing to drought.

Over the winter I spread wildflower seeds in my wildflower garden, basically it’s a patch of untended ground given over to what most would consider weeds. The first bloom to appear after the Bluebonnets was a California Poppy. It was a nice surprise. I hope more show up, and I may order some seeds to give it company because it is an attractive bloom, and I think it would look nice in my front yard.

It’s gardening time again. Yesterday, I planted a patch of Inland Sea Oats a friend gifted me, and I trimmed the deadwood from the Turks Caps along the front porch. The latter was tedious work and previously handled by my late wife. I usually remonstrated her with the remark that no one trimmed deadwood in the forest. But being on my own now, I see the value of the clean lines and a fresh start. I’ll do the lantanas today.

Winter stopped by the other day, burned the leaves and blooms on a few trees, before realizing its mistake and heading out of town, apologizing profusely for causing a disturbance during the arrival of spring. No one seemed to mind however, because it was nice to get one more chance to wear a sweater, and everyone knew winter wasn’t really here to stay.

I never dreamed I would become a fan of creams and lotions. But I have. My aging skin is thinning, and doing what old skin does. But I have an ancient influencer known as a doctor, a dermatologist, one who specializes in skin care, and she has recommended treatments, based on science, I assume. I follow them as best I can, especially when the north wind blows and the air dries out and my skin dries out even more and the itching comes. It’s a torment.

I can see the frost in the moonlight. That would be bad news if I had an orchard, but my peach tree passed a while back, so the plum is the only fruit tree left, and it’s never fruited. It had lots of blooms this year for the first time, however, so I’ll check when the sun comes up to see if anything fruity is going on. My persimmon is a male, which means lots of flowers but no fruit. That’s probably a good thing because persimmons stain.

At the moment, it’s fair and 41. Yesterday we hit the nineties. One day you’re up, the next day you’re down. At least it’s not snowing, but we might touch freezing tonight. Not what the new buds on the plants need. But it’s only for one night, and it might not be long enough to do any damage. Most of the trees have been through this before. They’ll bounce back.

I saw a bird. Pyrrhuloxia. Actually, two. They flew from bush to bush right in front of me. They were too fast for me and my camera, but I saw them clear as day and so did my friends. I last spotted one at Falcon Lake State Park in 1987. The recent sighting was just outside Persidio. I guess I could have found one sooner, but I’m a birder in the same way as I’m a geologist or a plant lover or a dabbler in physics. Incidental. I like to know what I’m seeing or reading, so I try to figure it out.

I like hiking. It’s where my body tells my mind, “Look, I’ve got this. You’re just along for the ride, head boy. Take a break. Look around.” So, I do. As I trudge along, I watch the trail, the plants, the mountains, the sky, the hikers ahead. It’s one foot in front of the other. A walk. A long walk. A slow walk.