Yesterday, my granddaughter ran the third leg of her team’s 4 X 400-meter relay in our regional track meet on the way to state. She took the baton in sixth place out of eight runners.

…I believe I prefer the more imprecise approach of lumping decades together and thinking, yeah, I felt good then in a general sense…

I have in my possession a two CD set featuring 32 versions of House of the Rising Sun. …You might think it boring to hear the same song 32 times. But on the contrary, it’s a great lesson in how musical tastes vary…

The morning glory, bought at a little shop in Blanco, began its life with us on the fence behind the eve’s necklace and mountain laurels. They were short, the fence was tall, and the morning glory thrived.

The Barbados cherry will become a shorter plant today. Over the years it had managed to become a nice shrubby bush, about four feet tall.

Spring is like the movie you love to watch over and over, with every appearance a director’s cut so that there is always something new to see.

There is nothing like a night of music with friends, the drive home, and falling into bed, tired and happy only to be notified around 1:30 a.m. that you forgot to put the cat out.

Happy days in the gardens. Everything is growing, blooming, or getting ready to bloom. Even the pansies that I put in for winter color are having a go at spring.

Lavender. An unassuming star of our gardens. Star in the sense that it needs little water, has a lovely foliage color, and grows well in a relaxed sort of way.

Several years back I planted some walker’s low catmint. It did well. But since the southern garden on the back porch has a slope to it, the catmint migrated down hill. Natural thing to do.

Hackberries are the plague of my gardens. We live close to the wilds, there are lots of hackberries there, and lots of birds to eat their fruit. The birds visit our trees. Poop the digested seeds. Hackberries sprout.

One, true, beautiful thing. That was my thought last night as I endured another session of trying to stabilize a life destabilized by the death of my wife.

Sometimes, in the morning, when I walk around the yard or stand on the porch, everything feels as it was, especially on a Sunday.

It was a beautiful morning yesterday, cool and the air was gentle on my skin. It mattered little that I thought the air belonged to Friday. It was still a nice day.

I spent much of yesterday morning in the yard and gardens. Mowing, edging, pruning, digging on my knees. I took a long walk into town. At the end of the day, my hands ached, my arms grew sore, I tired.

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.