The coming of fall and winter brings me a personal pleasure I never would have imagined as a younger man. It comes after that moment in the night when I can longer sleep and the tossing and turning drives me from beneath the covers. I go onto the porch, jacketless. I embrace the cold air. The cold air embraces me. I stare into the night. Sometimes there’s a breeze. Mostly not. Usually, it’s just the cold and me.

I’ve started making my own coffee creamer. Half and Half blended with sweetened condensed milk. My bullet does the job. It lasts a good while. There’s probably a small cost savings, but the big saving is no chemical additives. Although, I’m fairly certain at this stage of my life there’s not much left to reduce when it comes to loss of longevity through use of chemical additives. I think it’s just fun.

I dug up one of the Turk’s Caps yesterday. The Marie Pavia rose in the front porch flowerbed is down one competitor. It was easier than anticipated. Sixteen years of rotting oak leaves has given me nice, loamy soil. I’d like to think the next ones will come up with equal ease, but I’ve discovered the way of the world sometimes lures you in with something easy before banging you over the head with the hard thing.

Thank you, Polo. Your tropical moisture was most welcome. I logged close to four inches at my house. Best of all it came down at a relatively steady pace over several days. So, there were no flash floods to speak of. The Llano River puffed up but the flood control lakes controlled the flood, and the water made its way to the sea without incident. The rain made a local music festival a muddy mess, but that was the extent of the generated news.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was walking through the front room, I said, “I feel like a cup of coffee.” Then quick as a wink, I said, “But I look like a normal human being.” Then I laughed. Because some people might dispute the idea that I look like a normal human being, but mostly I laughed because I liked my own joke. And in your own house, it’s okay to laugh at your own jokes and the idea that you’re a cup of coffee. Although, truth be told, I laugh at them anywhere.

As anyone who reads this blog knows, I talk about what I’m doing and how I feel. On two occasions that sharing has proven beneficial. The first instance happened when I shared initial steps toward a possible surgery to repair my abdominal aortic aneurysm. A friend recommended a surgeon. That surgeon found I didn’t need the surgery at that time. So, I ended up with a more accomplished surgeon at a later date.

It’s late in life to find my way west, but that’s what I’ve done. In the last six years, I’ve spent more time in West Texas, New Mexico, and Colorado than in the previous 74 years combined. I wonder sometimes how I missed it, but there’s no point spending too much time pondering why. It was just a thing that happened, in much the same way that I missed a lot of musicians I’ve come to enjoy late in life. Our paths just never crossed when I was young.

As expected, and as I knew would probably happen, my paradigm has shifted. My advanced age no longer seems a constraint, rather it feels more like a reward. I have navigated the perils of youth and the vicissitudes of life to stand with the other aged beings, the sequoias, the whales. Ancient creatures, each of our own species, living to the fullest according to our design.

As we drove out of Alamosa yesterday morning, leaving the San Luis Valley and heading toward Rotan then home, the clouds were hanging low on the mountains, snagged in passing by the tall peaks. It seemed the mountains were picking the cloud’s pockets for snow, or rain, if that’s all they had. In either case, I hope they made out and got what they needed.

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.