Swallows. I have a pair trying to nest on the wall over the entrance to the dog run. Which means, if they’re successful, that when someone comes to my front door, they’d have to navigate a pile of bird dung. Not in the plan.

Last night, as I lay in bed, wandering around in the dark world of 3 a.m., I cast my mind back to the days when sleep was just a thing I did. I puzzled over it a bit.

I spent Memorial Day weekend on the banks of the Nueces River. It’s the river that runs through my life. It’s a beautiful river made even better for the memories generated along its banks.

We had a high of 94 yesterday in our little town. Today it is expected to hit 97. But it’s cool this morning, and there are a few clouds about. So, it’s a nice walk around the trees to look at the plants.

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…