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.

Big Bend drives me to silence. All I want to do, when I’m there, is to look at the landscapes as they stretch out around me and confront the enormity of time and think about all the lifetimes it took to get from there to here. After all, it’s a land that once sat at the bottom of a sea that first formed 100 million years ago, then became pocked marked with raging volcanoes 40 million years ago, then went quiet to let wind, rivers, and rain carve the landscape into its present form, one grain of sand at a time. It’s a lovely, slow-moving panorama.

My Mexican Plum is full of blooms, for the first time ever. We had a few single blooms last year. But this year is the real deal. There are flowers everywhere, from bottom to top. I’d like to think it’s happening because I took out one of the Turks Caps to give the tree more breathing room, but it’s more likely the tree has finally matured into it fruit bearing years.

I took a small break yesterday and went to play golf with my brother. I shot 91 on a 5,000-yard course, which seems a good score for my age. The key takeaway for me is that I felt as though I hit a lot of good shots, putted well, and managed to recover my form after a string of bad holes. A good day, all in all. Breaking ninety was within my grasp.

My upright rosemary is blooming. That’s a first. I guess it needed time to acclimate to its new home. The are also green buds on three small trees, the persimmon, the Mexican plum, and the sandpaper tree. And the mealy sage a friend gave me last year is coming up from their roots. Lots of growth activity in the gardens and the grounds. At some point next month, I’ll have to get busy myself. But I have a trip coming up, and my resources are dedicated.

It seems spring is coming to the garden. It might be a tad early. It’s only February. But the bulbs are popping up, the Coral Sage is sprouting, and the grass is green. If I had been a more diligent steward I might have noted these changes through the years, then I could speak with confidence of the early or lateness of things. Unfortunately, all I can do now is speak in generalities.

Something dug up the front yard last night a little more aggressively that one might expect from an armadillo or a skunk. Has the trappings of hog work. Deep holes, lots of dirt thrown around. Unfortunately, I moved the camera monitoring that part of the yard to another location the other day. So, I was blind to the nighttime activity. I guess I’ll need to bring in another camera.

The storm is done and the sun is melting the ice and snow. Winter is once again backing off. There are still patches in the shade, but today’s high promises to send most of it packing. I might venture out. Mostly I’ve stayed on the porch since I’m no fan of ice and falls. And when I do walk around, I have a pole for support. Apparently, age brings a sort of wisdom, or a low tolerance for risk of bodily injury.

Stepped outside this morning to feed the cats, and the cold air greeted me like a rapacious animal, anxious to steal every ounce of my warmth. Icy fingers slipped beneath my jacket, inched up my pants legs, and tweaked my ears. Foolishly, I’d gone out in slippers and pajamas, wearing a thin house jacket. Luckily, the cat houses are on the southern porch and close to the door. I dropped off the food and scurried back inside.

I feel a little silly going on about this, but when your weather is the exception, rather than the rule, it’s what you talk about. It’s cold, below freezing cold. And it’s going to rain, sleet and maybe snow. The accumulation forecast looks to be light, but I’m not one to judge. I’m only here to accept my fate, although I’ll be inside so it’s not much of a terror unless something breaks, and I think the chances there are low.

If you’re prone to anxiety as, am I, then the internet is the worst thing that ever happened. It knows what interests you and gives it to you, in spades. Take the coming winter storm as it pertains to Central Texas. In its simplest form the storm is bringing cold and ice and possibly snow. But internet Cassandras are out in full force. They remind us of Snowpacolypse. They talk about ice. They warn of power outages. They are shrill. They are loud. They are constant. Why? Clicks!