Once upon a time I played the role of the stage manager in a production of Our Town. Now I’m doing it in real life. Previously, my wife occupied the role. But she’s gone.

I took my old friend, the ‘65 Gibson, out for a spin last night, new strings and all. A picker’s circle, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time.

I forgot to take out the trash yesterday. That never happened when my wife was alive. Even when her brain went wonky, the schedule was still there.

Had a fine day yesterday. Wrote a bit. Did some website work. Played a little golf.

Here we are. Another day another dollar. Can’t tell whether the latter is coming or going. Probably going. That pretty much defines retirement and fixed incomes.

On Monday, they play the finals. A Baptist school will play a Catholic school for the national title, and I still remember when John F. Kennedy had to convince a group of Protestant ministers it would be okay to elect a Catholic president.

The front flower beds flanking the drive are now trim and neat. The cactus is gone, twist leaf yuccas, sotol, and Sage have the stage all to themselves.

The swallows are back. All the old nests have occupants. Out in the garden the spiderworts are in bloom. And we have a few bluebonnets. It’s a muted spring, however, the profusion of previous years is missing.

It feels strange sitting down to write at 11:30 when I normally wrap things up by 6:30 or seven, but here we are, nearly noon.