I’m sitting in the cool mountain air of New Mexico this morning. It’s a most pleasing thing to do. The mountains themselves rise up into that air right out our door. Later this morning we might go take a walk along the Rio Grande Gorge.

My late wife was in a blended family, brothers and sisters with her mother’s new family. Brothers and sisters with her father’s new family. There were no halves about it. They were simply her brother’s and sisters. Like a mother hen, as the oldest, she gathered them into her arms. I’m with one of those families, her father’s, this weekend in Taos. We came from different directions for a music festival, but the result is the same, we’re together for a bit.

Lifespans. The word came to me this morning as I watched the big garden spider tend its web on the corner of the back porch. It has about a year to do its business. Catch food. Find a mate. Lay eggs. Then I watched a mosquito fly by. It has two weeks to two months to pack in its living. The little black cat that called our place home got about ten years before feline cancer brought its life to an end yesterday. I’ve had 80 so far, while my late wife only got 70.

Yesterday evening I sat outside looking at the moon. Unlike the sun, it’s easy on the eyes. There’s no burning demand for your undivided attention. It’s just quietly cool, hanging there in the night, bathed in the leftover light of earth’s bright star. I’m a big fan of the moon. It rings a lot of bells deep inside me.

When I was at Seminole Canyon State Park recently I saw an exhibit that featured the local people hunting. They were chasing a rabbit, barefoot, across the arid land that surrounds the park. Given the number of prickly plants in the park, I wouldn’t run through it with boots on and wearing long pants. But there they were, chasing dinner, barefoot.

I’m obsessed with knick-knacks these days. I’m at a stage in my life where I’m taking stock, so it’s one of the things I’m counting. We have lots of them. Little things that sit on shelves, counters, tabletops and dressers. Ornamentals. Dust catchers. Mementos. Whatever you want to call them we have them. Sometimes they even masquerade as collectibles, a thing of value.

On my recent trip to Marathon we stopped at Seminole Canyon State Park and Historic Site. The Canyon and its caves show evidence that people lived there are far back as 12,000 years ago, with rock art dating back 7,000 years. That’s a long time for a picture to hang around on the wall of a cave, but I’m glad it did, because I had the pleasure of knowing an artist, Bill Worrell, who was mightily influenced by those drawings. I have some of his work in my home as do many of my friends.

Just spent four days in Marathon Texas listening to music, making music, and watching stars (the celestial sort). It was possible to walk everywhere I needed to go. Although we rode on occasion for speed and convenience. The weather cooperated. Hot days were followed by cool nights. Desert weather, the sort I’ve come to love over the years from my youth in the desert around 29 Palms California to the Big Bend that I discovered late in life.

Crossword puzzles are humbling. I think I am skilled in problem solving until I run across a set of puzzle clues that make me feel as though I’m wandering in a desert. It happened this morning. The clues simply sat there on the screen and no matter how many times I read them aloud, they meant nothing. My brain was blank. Finally, and I have no idea how, a single answer popped up. From there I was able to unwind the puzzle as various letters appeared. It was a relief, but it was a hard morning.

The ritual cleaning for company came to me courtesy of my late wife. The notice of coming guests triggered, depending upon the season, a spate of yard work to prepare the lawns and gardens, followed by the cleaning and organizing of the interior. Nothing could be left to chance. We dusted, we vacuumed, we wiped things down. Primarily, I was the keeper of the exterior, but military service and being the oldest son of a mother of four boys who thought her sons needed to do chores, uniquely qualified me for interior cleaning as well.

Well, my gray day yesterday lasted about as long as it took me to write about it, eat breakfast, and start my yard work. I mowed and edged and looked at my flowers. All four of my sage are in bloom, and it’s a heavy bloom, which is a real treat because they’re all at least six to seven feet tall and nearly that big around. For a subtle touch, the Ironweed my son planted is also blooming. But you have to look for it. It’s in the shade.

My small-town life has closed in around me once again. The party is over. The kids are off to their lives. Friends off to theirs. It’s me and the house and the cats, and the latter is company of the vaguest sort. It’s times like this when, if you had a partner and lost them, you miss them once again because there would be a recap to ease the transition. But that’s definitely water under the bridge, although not that much. In three weeks, it will be six years since my wife died. Sometimes it feels like forever and sometimes it feels like yesterday.

I’m having post-birthday thoughts. By most metrics, I’ve had a long life. I’m five years past the lifespan of the average US male, and one year away from how long most US women live. Mostly I think it’s luck and genetics. In fact, it’s probably all luck and genetics. I didn’t pick my parents, and I can recall two instances where death nearly came knocking but turned away. Both involved cars, and both were in my relative youth.

I’ve found myself sitting a bit too much lately, and I think it might be contributing to some of my back issues. I’m taking steps to rectify the situation. A friend’s daughter is helping me find a physical therapist, and I already have a good massage therapist. Now I just need to be my own get-up-and-go therapist and get moving. It also occurred to me, however, that in addition to dealing with an aging body, I might also be wrestling with a mild depression.

I stayed home for most of Independence Day. Read. Worked in the yard. Talked to the cats. I think you can call that independence. When the sun set and the time came, I walked into town for the fireworks. I arrived just in time to hear the end of our national anthem and see the evening sky begin to light up with a colorful display of pops and bangs. I expected more people, but there may have been other vantage points.

I work with a team of people who help a friend cater meals. One meal in particular is meant to replicate a fine dining experience. The table is set as tables should be set. We dress in black. Serve from the left, pick up from the right. It’s all about decorum. But there’s always a tension around the serving and picking up as to the necessity of the form because it’s not always easy to do. I insist we try; some are more relaxed.

I had a thought. Some people I know run when I say that, but I have them, thoughts, and I can’t stop. Here it is. The thought. I’m spending too much time thinking and talking about my age. Age isn’t a thing. It’s a data point. Granted, I’m approaching eighty and only about three percent of the US is there, but it’s still just a number, and I need to remember that. I always did before and I need to start doing it again.

My north fence garden is filling in nicely. I created it as support for a struggling chinquapin oak that was trying to survive in bare ground. The garden and the oak seem to be doing well. I’m particularly impressed with the upright rosemary, a plant that previously never graced my grounds. I have no idea why, but we always bought prostrate rosemary. Things change I guess.

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.

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.