On Monday, they play the finals. A Baptist school will play a Catholic school for the national title, and I still remember when John F. Kennedy had to convince a group of Protestant ministers it would be okay to elect a Catholic president.

The front flower beds flanking the drive are now trim and neat. The cactus is gone, twist leaf yuccas, sotol, and Sage have the stage all to themselves.

It’s possible, even, to imagine the tree thinking. Shutting down it’s systems when the cold hit, pulling back, going into survival mode. Making decisions. Moving energy here and there.

Roots. You put them down, you dig them up. They run deep. My two cacti, for instance, were happy where they lived. They put down some serious roots.

A new book is in the works. The Seasons: A Caregiver’s Tale. It will be a nature book about the hill country from the vantage point of my little home, which is a tiny spot, but so was Walden Pond, and I’m making no comparative claims, except that you can sit in one place and think.

Like an old dog, I stood in the sun yesterday and did nothing. Three times.

Once again, it’s the small things. Went on a tour of the yard yesterday with my son, the arborist, and discovered the Mexican Buckeyes are blooming. Delicate little flowers, and another spring joy …

The marie pavia roses are going to need a pruning. But I’m going to let them reveal where the cuts need to come.

The spineless cacti in the beds on either side of the drive are as limp as melted butter. The recent freeze did them no favors. But the peach tree. Oh, my. In a day or two, I do believe it will put a redbud to shame.

It’s always the small things. They make or break things. Relationships. Jobs. Moods.

I never really think about how many leaves are on the branches of our big oaks. They just hang there, swaying in the breeze, providing shade and shelter to me and the birds and the cats. Then comes the spring molt.

The sap is rising. My plants, squeezed within an inch of their lives by the icy hand of winter less than two weeks ago, are coming back. Lengthening days are pushing the chill hours of night toward the outer boundaries.

The Sandhill Cranes were flying yesterday. Their distinctive clucking call fell from the sky, but I could never locate the flock as it flew by. They were too high and moving too fast.

Went for a short walk this morning. Down the drive, out the gate, and back. It was the Tuesday morning taking out the trash walk. I noticed someone did a lousy job of turning around by my driveway. T

All the leaves are brown, against the blue sky, and it’s obvious something hard came this way. The big oaks look weary. The leaves are burned, but oddly, none have fallen to the ground.

It appears the natural order is reestablishing itself. Mama cat spent the night outside after having spent the previous eight days bunked down on the king bed with me while the rest of the world froze.

As I suspected, the snow in my little piece of Texas departed the scene with the arrival of the sun. Its exodus sped up when the temperature crossed 32. The pasture is once again wearing its brown winter uniform while the winter greens are still green.

I like the silence of snow. It falls with grace and arrives in dignity. It’s in no hurry to leave, either. Unlike its cousin the rain, which splatters and clatters and is always rushing off to get somewhere else, snow sits around, enjoys the view, and waits for the sun.

Well, this weather event is interesting, in that Chinese curse sort of way, may you live in interesting times. All week long I was looking toward today and relief, only to realize last night that we have another round of winter scheduled for today.

Woke up to the sound of snow melt this morning when I went out onto the porch. Our temperature is 33 and promises to go a little bit higher today. We’re still scheduled for hard, cold nights, but it seems the weather picture is shifting back to our favor here in Central Texas.