The rains came. I cleaned. I dusted. Vacuumed. Mopped. Stored. The countertops are nearly empty. The floors bare. As I suspected, my mood lifted. Improved.

Today feels like a low running river, there’s movement if you look close, but there are plenty of pools of stagnant water.

I like the digital world, particularly as it relates to medicine. I can make appointments, ask questions, get reminders, basically stay in touch. Where it falls a little short, oddly enough, is when it gives me access to my reports for blood work, scans, MRI’s, and sonograms.

Another birthday is in the books. It was sweet. Got calls from the kids early and friends as well. Plus, good old Facebook chipped in. More than 100 people sent me greetings.

Nuts. It looks as though Beryl is going to drop it’s rain on east Texas. Bad news for the Highland Lakes. Of course, now I have to worry about my kids in the greater Houston area. But that’s what dad’s do, worry about their kids.

Just bought a copy of Barbara Tuckman’s book, the Guns of August. I dropped off some clothes at St. Vincent DePaul in Fredericksburg. Bought the book for a dollar while I was in the store.

I have to confess. My daughter and her husband leaving Texas with their family is causing me a bit of distress.

I was drugged and probed yesterday. They found nothing which is good. It was an endoscopy the one year follow up to my last one.

It’s raining. And I was going to say outside, but where else would it be raining except outside. So, why mention it.

Several weeks back I had my annual visit with my cardiologist. He’s a nice young fellow who always takes time to explain things. As he was listening to my heart, there was a moment when he lingered. That’s the only way to describe it. It felt different than all the other times people have listened to my heart and lungs. But he didn’t say anything, so I didn’t say anything.

For the last several days I’ve been grandpa in residence, getting the kids up in the morning and off to their summer care programs.

I have a pair of leather grilling gloves I have repurposed to become thistle gloves. The invasive musk thistle that I am removing from my grounds is fiercely protective and the gloves are the only way I can handle the thistles as I dig them up. The other day I lost the right glove.

I’m lucky. My drug of choice when I’m down, is yard work. I felt funky the last week or so, laid low by memories of a departed wife and old camping trips.

We had another good rain last night just as I was falling asleep. But these little pop up thunderstorms are deceptive. While I got rain, I’m pretty sure it missed a lot of my neighbors.

Ah, the winds of change. My son who lives with me is considering his own place closer to nature. I’m replacing my 20 year old golf clubs. I sent my big BBQ pit to Houston to live with my oldest son.

Here’s how you disappear from the world. There is a tiny picture on the wall between two mirrors in our bathroom. It is nondescript. It was put there by my late wife.

Got out and about yesterday. Drank some wine. Ate some cake. Sang happy birthday. Played a new tune I wrote. Made some new friends, well acquaintances. We exchanged names and made small talk.

Here’s to the mysterious ways of the universe. We find love, unexpectedly. Children come into our lives. The mower that worked fine four days ago is now a sputtering pile of metal.

I’m putting up the pen for a week. Taking a break. No real reason except it just feels right.

I have a touch of dry eye. An outflow, no doubt, of my recent surgery where I was immobilized for the better part of two weeks. I fell under the lure of the small screen and watched too many videos.