The world is hot and only one man can save it. Sounds like a historical novel, but it’s fiction by Neal Stephenson.

Yesterday took me by surprise. The third anniversary of my wife’s death. I thought I was ready. I could see it coming. But I felt good. I was on the move. Getting things done. Planning. Then the day dawned.

I admit. I’m stymied this morning. I went outside. Expected cool. Got warm. Almost hot. My ear still hurts. Just a bit. Things are drying up. Including me.

My son-in-law, Army veteran, Ranger, and reserve officer is a constant source of reading material for me. Last Christmas he gave me: Black Hawk Down.

I usually sleep on my left side. And when my body requires a break, which it often does at night, I switch to the right. And back and forth I go.

For the second time in ninety days, I’ve had skin cancer removed. This was a Basel cell on my left ear. They did the procedure this morning. The anesthesia, such as it was, has worn off.

My great grandfather immigrated from Norway, joined the United States army in New Orleans, fought in the Mexican-American War, and was discharged from Fort Martin Scott, in Fredericksburg, just down the road from my house in Johnson City, Texas.

Once again we go back to war college. My son-in-law was selected to attend the U.S Army War College. He received his book list, shared it with me, and I thought it was interesting. One of the books in particular caught my eye, Supreme Command, by Elliot A. Cohen. I bought it.

Got home late last night from an evening of music and camaraderie. It was cool outside and the moonlight lit the back porch and bathed the pasture beyond in it’s soft light. I didn’t linger long.

I had fun with plumbing yesterday. My toilet leaked. I replaced all the bits that make it work. The fill valve, the flush valve, and the tank to bowl hardware.

There’s a Barbie movie and everyone is talking about it. And I read an interesting article in Psychology Today, What "Barbie" Gets Right About Male Psychology. I never owned a Barbie, but I like Psychology Today, and I’m male.

The other day I drove through a neighborhood in Marble Falls. The lawns were patches of brown, desiccated grass. My own yard is mostly dirt. Everything looked dead and hot. Yesterday, I drove through a neighborhood in Pearland.

I love Houston. We’ve been into each other for more than 60 years. It’s a big town with big dreams. The place was always about tomorrow and overcoming the odds.

I watched a big old pickup bear down on me yesterday while driving on highway 290 on the road into Blanco from Spring Branch. It was obvious it was going somewhere in a hurry.

I’m a grape picker. It was interesting work. Not sure I could do it eight hours a day, but two or three in the morning seem fine, especially when you’re gifted with a bottle of wine.

I’m going to pick grapes this morning. I have some mustang grapes on my fence, but these are merlot. I like merlot. It seems fitting that I should pick some grapes. I like wine, and I like the folks who run the vineyard where I’ll pick, Texas Heritage.

To begin again you often have to tear something down. A set of beliefs. A relationship. A fence. In my case it’s the latter. The old fence is coming down. I’m in phase two.

In the early 70s, as an intern for the Houston Chronicle, I was sent to interview Gunther Gebel Williams a lion tamer for Ringling Brother’s Barnum and Bailey Circus. He lived in a nicely appointed rail car.

I watched a multi-part docudrama series on the creation of Spotify recently called the Playlist. You can find it on Netflix.

I did it. The hose reel came together. The Bluetooth headphones connected. Patience won. And sleep. It is odd to think that at an age when I have little time left, I now appreciate the benefit of taking my time.