At the base of the big crape myrtle is a flower bed that once was full. That was when the tree was tiny. There was turks caps, salvia greggi, and rock roses. They were abundant. Then the tree grew large.

I went to a memorial service yesterday for a man I barely knew. We had a casual relationship; it was centered around a musician we favored.

I believe summer is finally beginning. It is warm this morning. And there’s nary a breeze. I like my morning’s cool.

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.

We’ve had a wet spring and early summer. Everything that likes water is getting water. I’m cautiously optimistic we might make it to fall without losing anything.

I love summer. I got home yesterday following lunch and an afternoon of music with time to mow. So, I did. I changed into my work clothes and fired up the zero turn mower.

It’s the days of the crape myrtles. They’re all in bloom. Pink petals litter the drive. Everywhere you look there are flowers. White by the back door. Pink in the back garden. Pink in the front, white in the front, purple, too.

Made music with friends yesterday. The best way to make music. And there were friends there to listen, too. And two of my cousins showed up, and that was special.

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

Willie Mays. He helped destroy my dreams in the 1954 World Series when he ran down that drive by Vic Wertz in the Polo Grounds. Cleveland was my team.

A few thoughts on things my parents gave me and what I’ve done with them.

Yesterday was Father’s Day. My oldest son called. My youngest son popped in with best wishes. And my daughter and her two arrived on the way to summer camp with a pair of socks for me declaring me a cool ass grandpa.

Yesterday I talked about the foundational women in my life, but there were others who had a large impact as well.

Today, as we continue my voyage of discovery, I look back into my life and memories and talk about the women in my early life. Three in particular hold places of honor. My mother, my grandmother and her mother. The foundation.

I’m back talking about my family. More history. Let’s chat about my youngest brother. He’s gone. Died in 2005. He was gay. This month is LBGT pride month, and I think about him a lot, but always during this month.

Outside my door there’s thunder and I saw lightning just a bit ago. The storm is just to the south of me. I can see rain in the tree line.

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 think my best bet is to emulate Chance the Gardener in Being There and maintain my silence, smiling, nodding, and taking my pleasure in the simple things…

We’re still in childhood talking about my family and my dichotomous life. And what is the dichotomy?