There is no time to waste. It is just past 6 a.m. I have to be in Boerne at 9, which means I have to leave the house by eight. That gives me an hour, less now, to write this, publish, eat breakfast and dress.

This is what I call winter. It’s 36 outside. We could still use some rain, and I have no idea if any is in the immediate forecast. At this point, I’m pretty sure I don’t care.

I’m untethered. For two years the poles of my universe alternated between home and a memory care facility down the road in Fredericksburg. I oriented my life to that town, shopping, medicine, everything.

Back in the days of us, my wife did most of the plant shopping. I did the plant planting. She’d set them out. I’d dig the holes and put them in the ground.

I always visit my books on Veterans day, writings about men at war. Granted, I enjoy seeing all the pictures of fresh-faced soldiers, my parents and grandparents included, but they only tell part of the story.

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.