Our little compound is fairly resistant to deer. It’s a combination of fences, vegetation, and location. We get occasional visitors, but little of our plant life is conducive to nibbling so off they go.

Here’s a secret. I have an abdominal aortic aneurysm. Its better known as the silent killer.

My friend Jim Tobin passed away this past Sunday, October 3. He was a victim of ALS.

Went for a late-night walk the other evening. Not a long ramble. I confined myself to the porch. Got to the east end of the south porch and discovered an orb weaver had set up shop.

Home, again. Home, again. It feels good.

Today I start my push for the summit. Naw, just kidding. Today’s trip will be anything but heroic. I’m simply going home.

I like old river towns. There are lots of curves. Roads follow the river, and rivers curve. Wichita is like that.

There was a time when hotels played a big role in my life. Now? Not so much.

Heading north to Wichita. I wonder if any of my relatives every drove cattle this way. Probably not.

This past spring, I added a Gregg’s Mist flower to my plant collection. It’s done well. So, has the garden spider.

A midnight storm woke me up. Lightning crashed and thunder rolled. But like a passing goodbye kiss or a quick hug, it was gone before I knew it.

I have a small quandary, about the size of a bread box.

It’s always interesting to put new plants in the ground and see how they do.

I spent most of the day yesterday in a state of anticipation.

We’ve had swallows since the first year the stone walls of our house went up;

Yard work is nearly bearable when the weather is cool, and it was cool yesterday.

Well, this feels nice. It’s 63 outside this morning. I actually discovered this around 3 a.m. when my internal clock kicked me awake.

They patched the potholes on my street yesterday. A big front-end loader waddled up from city hall, which is just down the road a bit, its bucket full of asphalt.

Dad joke time.