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.

I swung a Mattock Pick yesterday to bust up the root ball of a plant I was trying to remove. It didn’t take me long to realize these old limbs aren’t what they used to be. Brute force is no longer my forte especially for extended periods. That’s a slightly sad feeling. But that’s okay, at least I’m still trying. I’m just going to manage it in bursts. Whack it once or twice, then dig a little. Sometimes patience pays off. Besides, what’s the hurry?

Things will freeze this weekend. The forecast low for Saturday and Sunday is 13. That’s cold in anyone’s book. Rain chances are mixed. But there will be enough ice to give an old man pause when it comes to walking outside. I think I’ll get my hiking poles out for the extra support if I do need to get around. Mostly I think I’ll just stand on the porch and watch.

I find it deeply ironic that Indiana, a proverbial loser, won the National title in college football doing exactly what earned the Southern Methodist Mustangs the death penalty in 1987—paying players. My, how the times have changed. And I think it’s fair to say parity has come to college football courtesy of NIL and profit sharing, because even Vanderbilt is winning.

Finally, it feels like winter. The heavy cold has arrived. It feels good and is a nice way to scrub off the final memories of a hot summer. Of course, there was no rain with the recent front, which is unfortunate, because we could use the rain. But I’m tired of speaking of how the dryline has moved. This is simply our lot in life now. Dry days and water tables sacrificed to satisfy developers and irrigators.

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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.

It’s interesting to see what people watch. I’ve been posting short video reels recently on Facebook, to help build my audience prior to the spring release of my new book. The reel shot behind the scenes of Mount Rushmore has been watched for more than seven hours. That’s a fifteen second reel. I guess it’s something not many people have seen. Not viral but interesting. And Gatewood Press has gained followers.

I was poking around in the attic and made a discovery. I found our coffee cup collection. Thirty cups in which I can read a short story of my life. There are cups from cities, states, countries, and places we visited. There are cups from my working life. Some of them even had desiccated bodies of scorpions in them because that’s what happens when you live in the country, in Texas.

There’s a cold wind blowing this morning. A front came through yesterday. There was no rain, however, which is a bit of a disappointment, but at least it now feels like January. There’s no telling how long it will last. I suppose I should pay more attention to the weather, but I think if something significant was on the way news of it would bubble up in my social media stream. Although, there’s a lot to be said for paying attention to the weather, especially in winter.

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 finally succumbed. I bought a paper calendar. It now hangs on the wall in my kitchen over my weekly whiteboard. I thought the latter would be enough to help me keep up, but I was wrong. I needed an easy way to see the month at-a-glance, the big picture. The role of the phone will be to send me reminders, and record dates on the fly.

On January second, I wrote about getting tangled up in the Meta/Facebook advertising tools. Basically, it was a note to myself that I needed to back up and make sure I had a better understanding of how the system worked. If ignorance is no excuse of the law, it’s really no excuse in business. But yesterday, I did a cursory check of my bank account and realized I was getting refunds from Meta. Here’s a quick thank you to whomever pulled that trigger. I feel less of a dunce.

I replay conversations in my head. Parse them right down to the phrase and single words. I’m looking for things I might have said or not said, things that might have given offense or not expressed my feelings appropriately. I’m also going over what other parties said, trying to make sure I heard what I thought I heard, because sometimes I hear what I want to hear.

Last night I found myself working until 11 p.m. quite by accident. I have immersed myself in the nuances of Facebook advertising, and it is a thrill ride I can tell you. Plus, my account was hacked and someone else was in the woodshed, which has really made things interesting, and I am still untangling that knot. But I think we’re getting there, and I’m keeping good notes, which was what I was doing until 11 last night.

Well, well. I made it into the new year. I even ventured out to attend a party. There was food, drink, and good company. I was home by eleven. I saw fireworks as I drove, and they popped and boomed as I lay in bed. Others now have the official job of welcoming the new year in person. Personally, I know it’s coming no matter what I do, and sure enough here we are.

The writer me, is too tired to write, and doesn’t much feel like it, this morning. The editor me, however, says get busy son, we pay writers to write and don’t much care how you feel about it. I guess I’m glad I have an editor me, although I don’t really know why. No one is actually paying me to do this, yet I persist. I guess I hope something good will come of it. Maybe it’s just about me, and the good that will come of it is me persisting.

Home again, home again. I’m back from Virginia. My second Christmas away, in the warm embrace of my daughter’s family. My oldest son and his family also were there. As well as my sister-in-law and her family. This is the second year in which I passed on putting up Christmas decorations at my own home, which was a nice break from what was beginning to feel an obligatory ritual.

I suppose it’s inevitable, but every once in a while, I feel as though I’ve passed my “best used by” date which means it’s off to the trash heap for me. And it’s hard to argue with that because I do look and feel overripe, blotchy, and saggy. On the other hand, it’s the normal state of affairs for people my age, and most of my friends are either in the same boat or on the way to getting there whether they know it or not.

2026. The country will be 250 years old. I’ll be eighty if I make it to July. The bicentennial was a fun time. I’m not sure what the semi quincentennial will be like. The name doesn’t really roll off the tongue. I suspect though that Fourth of July fireworks will be epic no matter what and I’ll probably be happy with whatever my little town cooks up. Heck, I may even go to the parade.