I’m away from home. I miss my home. Why? The routine. I get up in the morning. I fix my coffee. I feed the cats. I write. I eat breakfast. I tour the yard and then the day starts. When I’m away from home I have to run my routine in the empty spaces of my hosts lives.

There is a little know law of Texas geophysics which states that in any sequence of post holes at least one hole must encounter a rock of significant size, particularly if the holes are being dug in what appears to be good, soft soil.

We might get rain today. In terms of the things that could happen today, that’s pretty good. We need rain.

For the last two years my son and I have watched a little tree that sprouted in our garden, wondering what it was. We know now. It’s a peach tree.

If you’re going to examine your life in public, which is what I decided to do when I started writing about what it was like to watch my wife die of dementia and then deal with my grief, it will get personal, and you’ll run across things like the little story that follows.

I’m still unable to discover the second topic I thought would make for a good essay. That’s sad. I mean, I had the idea right there in my head on Wednesday as I drove home from Houston.

Yesterday, I had two ideas I thought I might write about this morning. I believed they were committed to memory. I was wrong. Only one survived the night.

We had no rain to speak of this past winter at our house. No winter grass sprouted in the yard. For the longest time I despaired of seeing spring. But like love, it found a way.

Last year, on a trip to Marathon, I got a ticket for going too fast in a school zone. I took defensive driving.  I learned something doing it.

I’ve been dreaming of my late wife recently. Odd little dreams, here and there. Nothing special or weird. She just shows up.

Yesterday was another good day in the yard.