Gave two of my wife’s little bags to two little girls yesterday. Nick-knack bags with pink felt flowers and the like.

I was thinking about taking a break from writing about death and destruction as I deconstruct my wife’s closet, but it’s pretty much a constant and not really that much of a struggle.

Friends. Yesterday was seismic. As seven boxes of my wife’s clothes and shoes went out the door a new recliner crashed into the room. Continents drifted. Mountains rose. New oceans formed.

I did what I thought was going to be a hard job yesterday. I packed up my late wife’s clothing for the local Catholic charity in Fredericksburg. It was hard.

An unusually wet July and August have done wonders for the khaki weed harvest. Crop yields are way up.

Preamble: In 1975 we bought our first house. It was built by my father-in-law in a new subdivision he was developing in Pasadena. His house was right down the street and around the corner from ours.

While I’ve got you metaphysically cornered, I’m going to tell you a crazy uncle story.

There I was yesterday evening, sitting in my easy chair, after eating a dinner of friend zucchini and venison sausage, feeling all manly, when I looked down and realized my tee shirt was inside out.

It feels like a good day in the neighborhood. I mowed a bit yesterday and pulled a few weeds, because khaki-weed is a real tenacious pest. I even worked up a sweat.

I stepped through the looking glass last Tuesday evening. Stepped out again yesterday, Friday, around noon. This is what happened.

Talk about old habits. On the anniversary of my wife’s death, I decided to remove my wedding band. It’s been well over a week, yet I find myself reaching down to absentmindedly fiddle with the ring.

Yesterday it was dishwasher’s, today it’s another domestic chore, laundry and its distant cousin, ironing.

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?