It’s an air-is-out-of-the-balloon day. The grandson is gone, back to his mom and dad, and the emptiness is shrinking in around me. That’s okay, however, it happens every time the kids come then go.

I’ve had a good weekend. The littlest grandson came for a visit. Slept on the couch. Went with me to hear music. We trekked through Longhorn Cavern. Swam at the city pool. Went shopping. Three times.

I have to say that cleaning and organizing my garden tool storage room revealed a startling fact. I have tools I never or seldom use.

I am reaching deep into every corner of my life and home as I reorganize. Yesterday, I got after the storage area at the end of my workroom.

Last year I let my little Tif yard get away from me. It’s really the only bit of manicured grass I have. It was planted at the behest of my late wife.

I was driving in the workaday world last week and realized I was just background noise to the people going to work and doing their jobs. Practically speaking, I was invisible.

June 6. D-Day. It’s about 7 a.m. as I write this. In Normandy France it’s 1:58 p.m. On D-Day 1944, it would be about seven hours into the landings on the six mile stretch called Omaha Beach.

It’s not Marat sitting in his bath with a towel on his head, but I’m writing in bed this morning because little ones are asleep on the couches, and they have yet to stir.

It’s a late start today. Went to a house concert last night. There was a rain delay. I got home late, for me. The alarm went off at six, but I ignored it. Now here I am.

Had a conversation the other day with a friend who had a tough year in 2022—lost his dad and suffered with long covid. He’s feeling better now, and we talked about that journey to better.

I debated talking about this, but in the spirit of openness here goes. This past weekend, I saw a picture of myself that I liked, where I thought I looked normal and happy. I was excited.

About ten years ago, I built two garden plots on the back lots. I brought in a pallet of limestone blocks to use as the borders. I did the work by hand. I was a younger man.

I’ve heard tell it’s the little things that count. I tend to agree with that assessment. In life and love, I’ve had it prove out. And sometimes I think it’s a good way to measure the advance of civilization.

I thought I had fallen out of love with camping. Bugs, weather, and discomfort having done me in. But when I stepped out of my tent this past Saturday morning, I realized we were still a couple.

Another cool, blessed morning. This time the birds were waiting for me to bring out the feeder. A little Carolina Chickadee and a Titmouse were in the trees.

It’s nice to know we’re heading into June with 60 degree mornings. I’d like to send an official thank you to New Mexico and everyone to the northwest for sharing their cool air with us. Keep up the good work…

We got an inch of rain last night, my hand is healing nicely, and I’m back in the wordy saddle. It feels as though I got a good night’s sleep. Lots of dreams. I mean seriously, lots of them and really detailed, too, but none worth repeating.

Life at the bird feeder is heating up. Word is out, and creatures big and small are showing up.

Again, the fury of the storm raged in the sky around me last night, but little came of it. Once, late, there was a lightning flash that seemed close by, but the rumble of thunder gave it away, coming late and slow.

Spent the day yesterday doing something I could easily do every day. Read a book and listened to music. But not just any music. I started going through the box of vinyl I bought for $10 at a garage sale. It’s 90% classical.