It looks as though it might rain, which is just the weather being flirty. Nothing will come of it, I’m sure. If it does, of course, I’ll be happy. We need rain. .

We had a fifteen-minute cold-front yesterday. It was fun. The sky darkened, the wind blew, a little rain fell, and the temperature dropped, ever so slightly. I guess you could say it was a pale blue norther.

I did a strange thing yesterday. I ported over the number from my wife’s old iPhone 5 to a new phone. It’s now the official number for Gatewood Press, which is fitting, I guess, since it’s the publisher of my new book about our experience with her dementia.

Big day today. I’m scheduled to get a new tool. It should be here this afternoon. It’s a tree puller. Well, little trees to be more specific. The kind that sprout up because birds poop their seeds in bad places.

Went looking for beauty yesterday. Needed to flush some adrenaline from my system. Started on the back porch in the morning.

Went to the doctor’s office yesterday for bloodwork. Didn’t need it. Got a flu shot instead along with an exchange of words with a patient who thought it was none of my business if or how they were wearing a mask.

I closed a bank account the other day, actually a credit union account. Seems an inconsequential and rather ordinary thing to do.

I like little things, the minutiae of everyday life. Take yesterday. I found a possum foraging in the garage for food.

I’d like to write about something other than my wife but given that its only 90 days since she died, you’ll have to excuse me, maybe even forgive me.

A friend, who lost her husband once told me, nights are the worst. I listened and gave whatever comfort listening gives. But inside, I thought perhaps it was an individual experience.

It’s maudlin time. I was looking at a picture of me and my wife. It was taken on the occasion of a friend’s birthday. It was outside. There was a band. A table with tequila.

This is it. Today’s the day. For the last month, on the mornings when I published my usual Note, I saw this warning: John, creating and editing notes will be unavailable after October 31.

Yesterday, from high in the clear blue sky, came the sound of Sandhill Cranes. A deep throated bubbling call that is unmistakable once you see the cranes and hear the sound.

2020 seems to be the year of death and dying. Wives, aunts, fathers, friends, people we knew up close and people we knew at a distance.

Set out the winter beds for the cats yesterday. Two old dog kennels, one old sleeping bag, one old packing blanket, two old small, bedding blankets, put out by one old man.

It’s 38, raining, and there’s a hurricane in the Gulf. Seems pretty normal for October.

Went to bed thinking I had a subject for today’s essay. Woke up with no subject in mind. That’s a little disconcerting.

I’m starting to enjoy my two-stage nightly sleep. Go to bed. Dump all the day’s troubles.

I found an arrowhead yesterday, in my front yard.

Inconsequential factoid. I slept in the center of the king bed last night on what shall now be known as the hill between the valleys of the two bodies.