I’ve started work on my new book, Learning to Live. It’s about me navigating the murky waters of grief. It starts the day after my wife died and continues to this day. It’s a personal story because grief is a personal story. But the hope in publishing is that by telling my tales, a struggling reader might find a thought or an idea that proves useful, provides relief, gives hope, and says, you’re not alone.

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I strapped on a new set of strings and went to the open mic last night at the Villa at Gruene, hosted by my young friend Bo Brumble. It was a coolish evening, but the heaters were running and I had cup of black coffee to warm me up and help me focus. I played my three songs, then sat to visit with Bo and listen to the other musicians. It was a pleasant night with good company all around.

I had a full day yesterday. Got a good result from a doctor. Changed the oil in my new-to-me car. Bought a few groceries. Edited a few videos. Watched a package I sent to my son in Cypress go all the way to New Orleans as it made its way to him. Seems rather roundabout, but I cannot pretend I understand the mysteries of postal shipping. Nor do I understand most of life’s mysteries.

When I started this writing adventure, it was mostly me looking at the world around my feet and commenting on it. A slow casual walk through life. Turns out there is lots to see in the ordinary. Then the elephant arrived: my wife’s dementia. I tried writing around it, but it was too big to ignore as was my grief in the aftermath of her death in 2020. Even now, six years on it seems as fresh as yesterday.

I woke to memories of rain, but a quick look outside said it was only the wind. It’s bad enough to wake up at 3:30 but even worse to discover the sound pulling you out of a deep sleep was nothing you yearned for. But isn’t that just like life? It flirts with you, gets your hopes up, and then teaches you a bitter lesson. Onward. I’m sure it will rain one day soon.

I have a mug, my mug, at my daughter’s home. It’s a nice hefty, bulbous mug, black with a deep red interior and a dark red UH on the front for my alma mater, the University of Houston. Whenever I’m in the house, I use it to drink my coffee. I got it for Christmas one year as an official encouragement to come visit any time I want, to let me know I’m always welcome. Sweet gesture.

I went to the recital of a friend’s granddaughter last night. It wasn’t planned, and part of a longer story, but that’s alright. The family has played a key role in my life since the death of my wife and the grandchildren know me as Mister John. We get along well. And getting to see one of them play at a recital reminded me of how much I missed my little grand-kids in Virginia and their recitals. So, it was a fun thing to do.

A lesson in commerce. My daughter and I spent several months discussing, designing, and creating a series of mugs for me to sell in our online store at Gatewood Press. The goal was to create something with the potential to sell not only to the fans I have for this blog, but to a broader base. To that end we even advertised on social media. I used the approach in 2021 when I published my last book, with good results. The results this time? We sold two mugs.

It is rather comforting for this old man to be back in the universe of Microsoft. Writing in word and calculating in Excel. The addition of the company’s AI tool has rounded out the package. I was late to the company’s initial offerings, but like the virus in Pluribus, eventually they assimilated the competing word processing and spreadsheet offerings in the early days of computing and became universal in the business world of my youth. I learned to love and use its tools. We were peaceful and happy.

Spent my evening yesterday with people making music. An open mic, welcome to all comers, and they came. The evening is hosted by a friend which is what gave me my initial boost of courage several months back. I’m not real sure why I needed it. Sixty years ago, when I first picked up the guitar, I had a trio and we’d play for anyone at the drop of a hat. I guess as the years wore on, I learned how much I didn’t know, and that began to give me pause. These days, in the twilight of my life, my nerves twitch when I play for strangers.

Two years ago, in November, I hiked to the top of Gudalupe Peak, the tallest mountain in Texas. I got up the next day and did a seven-mile hike. Five months later, I had an abdominal aortic aneurysm repaired. I shut down. I haven’t been on a monumental hike since. Lots of short ones, but nothing like that one year of the South Rim and the Peak. Mostly, I’ve chalked it up to letting my body heal and age, but I hardly ever think of those seven stents anymore. So, that excuse is long gone. I think it’s time to strap on the boots and backpack and get moving.

It’s a cool windy day with a promise of rain. A good staying inside day. A cold front’s coming. Lows in the 30s, highs in the 40s. A Texas winter. We’re the place where blue northers come to die, victims of the second law of thermodynamics. Don’t bring your arctic air around here. You’ll be balmy in no time. It’s one reason why so many refugees from northern climes live here. The cold air might chase them, but it will surrender in the end.

I have a car and I am exhausted. Partly, there’s always the nagging suspicion I might have done the wrong thing. I suppose second guessing is just in my nature. Then there was the stress of simply buying the durn thing. It takes an emotional toll. Finally, there was the wrestling with insurance and dealing with the rent car that toted me around while I looked for a new vehicle. Lots of t’s to cross and i’s to dot.

I was sitting outside yesterday afternoon, in the shade of a deck roof with a big fan spinning. The air was soft with a hint of fall. Short days and cool nights have chased away the worst of the summer heat. There was music being made by a man of magic and we were all enthralled, having heard the songs many times before, but never tiring of the tunes.

We drove through Hunt and Ingram on our way home Sunday. The power of water was on full display. The cliffs were washed clean, and only the biggest trees remained standing beside the river. The works of man were ravaged, too.  Cars beaten flat sat beside the road. Houses emptied or swept away dotted the landscape. The slate was wiped clean and it was difficult to see what stood where.

There was a time when I dutifully squeegeed the water off the shower glass and walls. Then that time passed. I am now paying for my sins. For the last week I have stood, fully clothed, in my shower, working with vinegar, lemons, and elbow grease to remove the built up scale off the glass. It is, to say the least, tedious work. But I am emerging victorious. To a degree. There will be no perfection, but it will be better.

I think I have a neat and tidy life. Everything well ordered. Everything in its place. Then I clean a closet and mysteries unfold and worlds come unlocked. There’s a box full of small dolls my wife collected, featuring a geisha under glass that I bought in Tokyo. The Wilson family bible once again sees the light of day, a book most liked printed in the 30s, a compendium of births and deaths. A program for the first game ever played in the Astrodome in 1965 sits in its protective envelope.

The thing I most enjoy about the re-exploration of my classical music collection is the time it takes to listen to one work, and the attention that needs paying to do so. If I look away for even an instant, the music becomes elevator music and when I look back I have no idea how the music got to where it is or why the composer wanted me there. I’ve picked up the stylus and gone back more times than I can count this week.

From what I can see with the naked eye, the moon has company this morning in the eastern sky. Castor, Pollux and Jupiter are hanging close at hand, with Venus down below watching at a distance. Two stars, two planets. It’s a nice view from the end of the porch. Of course the water tower is there too, just above the tree line. It’s home to the radio that sends me my internet signal.

The recent rains and coolness have returned a little color to the land. Where once it was all about brown, the green is back. I had to mow for the first time in a month yesterday. Not an onerous chore because of my big riding mower, but dusty and noisy even though I wear ear protection. I even did a little weeding in the north garden, trying to free it of grass mostly so that the other little plants could grow next spring.