For the last two years my son and I have watched a little tree that sprouted in our garden, wondering what it was. We know now. It’s a peach tree.

If you’re going to examine your life in public, which is what I decided to do when I started writing about what it was like to watch my wife die of dementia and then deal with my grief, it will get personal, and you’ll run across things like the little story that follows.

I’m still unable to discover the second topic I thought would make for a good essay. That’s sad. I mean, I had the idea right there in my head on Wednesday as I drove home from Houston.

Yesterday, I had two ideas I thought I might write about this morning. I believed they were committed to memory. I was wrong. Only one survived the night.

I’ve been dreaming of my late wife recently. Odd little dreams, here and there. Nothing special or weird. She just shows up.

Yesterday was another good day in the yard.

Never let anyone tell you writing isn’t work. This morning, before I put fingers to keyboard, I had to lie down on the floor, on my back, and re-attach the holder for my keyboard.

I have been remiss. My gardens need tending, and I have done nothing. Deadwood needs trimming. Weeds need pulling. Borders need tidying. Instead, I have gone gallivanting around the countryside for the first quarter of the year.

Recently, a news story caught my eye. A pickup crossed the center line and hit a van in West Texas. The occupants of the truck died as did most of the occupants of the van,

The waxing gibbous moon is still pretty, big, and bright over the pasture. The northwest wind is gusting, and the air is clear and cool.

Went to the hills south of town and watched the sun go down yesterday evening. More precisely, I watched as the earth turned leaving the sun right where it always is, in the middle of the solar system.

I had a good day yesterday. Got a massage in the morning. Played golf in the afternoon. Did really at both.

Animals. Two stories.

Here are the choices. Lids. Cold weather. Gumbo. I know. It’s confusing. But I have to start somewhere, and this is the best I can offer.

Most evenings, as I head off to slumber, I’m thinking about what I want to write the next day.

Here I am again, writing away from home. It’s okay, though. I’m at the home of my eldest.

Typically, my day starts early and slow. A little writing. A little coffee. A little sitting around. That all goes out the window with grandkids in the house.

I went to church last night. To hear music. It was made by Walt Wilkins, with his wife Tina, and Bill Small and Ron Flynt. It was just what I hoped it would be.

It’s hard to believe I had a day full of something yesterday but really nothing special to write about or at least nothing I feel like sharing right now.

I was lucky as a young parent. Our first house was built by my father-in-law, the second husband of my late wife’s mother. They then built a house about seven houses down and around the corner, because that’s what developers do.