When you get into a routine, sometimes it feels as though nothing is happening. When in reality everything is happening. And sometimes you feel as though the same thing is happening, when nothing is ever the same and everything that is happening is in reality all new.

I’m moving quietly through the sleeping house this morning. Getting my coffee. Writing. It reminds me of almost all the days of my working career.

Roamed the streets of Pearland yesterday, and Manvel, too. The latter is where we landed after vacating Pasadena in the mid-90s. We rented because we didn’t know how much we’d like country living. Turns out we liked it a lot.

There are books that are fun to read and that’s that. There are books that make you think, and that’s that. But then there are books the make you think and suddenly that’s no longer that, but something entirely different

Went to hear music the other evening, and while we waited recorded music was played. At one point, on came Elvis singing, Can't Help Falling in Love, and before you knew it all the boys there at the club began to sing along. Me included. And it was fun.

In addition, to reading, I like to cook, and this book is my bible and guide and reference point.

Talk about the strange human brain. I start my day with Wordle. The NY Times puzzle that gives you six chances to guess the five letter word the editor chooses every day. I do the puzzle every morning. And lately, I’ve begun to feel that if I fail my day is likely to be a bad one. That seems odd.

What did we ever do before the internet. How did we discover the only way to cook scrambled eggs? Did we even care what four things rich people did? And what’s the criteria for a bad decision in TV, and why 50, why not just ten?

Emotions. I’ve had the devil’s time learning to keep mine in check, particularly on the golf course. Being a middling player at best, frustration has been my constant companion.

I like J.D. Salinger but not for the book that made him famous, Catcher in the Rye. I just didn’t get it. But Franny and Zooey, well, that was a different story.

I’ve loved McPhee’s work ever since I ran across his writing in the New Yorker back in the early 70s. He writes in elegant prose and he’s right up there with E. B. White another New Yorker author I love.

It’s hot. Even in the shade. The wind blows. It’s hot. The ground is hot. The plants are hot. The animals are hot. My long-haired cats look like refugees from boot camp. There’s no escape.

I remember as a young boy going to the battlefield in Yorktown. Looking at the redoubts. Walking the ground. It was exhilarating. It was made more so, because I’d read a book called We Were There at the Battle of Yorktown, from a popular young adult series back in the fifties.

Got a sweet text from my daughter last night. While driving in the car yesterday, the kids had a discussion about how much they miss me.

We’re baking. Got up last night about three. This was my second night at home in two weeks. Wandered out into the dark. The porch thermometer said, 85. I went back in and dreamed of snow.

It’s been a good week. The grand-kids are in their new school. I helped around the house. Cooked a dinner. Hung curtains. Folded clothes. And did a little grocery shopping. Basically, I tried to make myself useful.

Here I sit in my second floor room in my daughter’s home looking out the window into their backyard. The house is quite. I’m quite. In a few moments, we’re getting close to seven a.m., the waking will start.

Took a walk down memory lane yesterday. Drove to the University of Houston. Parked. Went to the building formerly known as the University Center, UC for short.