My dishwasher bit the dust the other day. Twelve years of hard water and hard work took its toll. All it does now is blink at me, little blue lights, flashing away beside unresponsive buttons.

If you live in Hill Country, you should be getting up in the morning and going outside. The air is cool and fine. It’s a once in a lifetime August.

A black and yellow garden spider has set up shop in the turks cap beneath the Mexican plum in the little garden at the west end of the south porch in the tifway yard.

I need thicker hide, tougher skin, something to absorb the blows. Every little thing these days feels like a personal affront. I realize as I get older that my skin gets thinner, but you’d expect better callouses on the emotional side.

I was on fire yesterday. The day started with my usual one-mile power walk. Then I fired up my new power washer. Manpower and horsepower.

I thought I’d have something to say on the first anniversary of my wife’s death. Turns out I’m struggling for words.

Lost limb from the sumac to the storms the other day. Just stripped it right off.

Wow. Went to hear music and sit with friends yesterday. To celebrate we got pelted with rain. And then it rained again last night. Is this still Texas?

Canned another six pints of peach jam yesterday (twelve, eight-ounce jars). It’s far from a lyrical enterprise when you do it by yourself.