I like J.D. Salinger but not for the book that made him famous, Catcher in the Rye. I just didn’t get it. But Franny and Zooey, well, that was a different story.

I’ve loved McPhee’s work ever since I ran across his writing in the New Yorker back in the early 70s. He writes in elegant prose and he’s right up there with E. B. White another New Yorker author I love.

It’s hot. Even in the shade. The wind blows. It’s hot. The ground is hot. The plants are hot. The animals are hot. My long-haired cats look like refugees from boot camp. There’s no escape.

I remember as a young boy going to the battlefield in Yorktown. Looking at the redoubts. Walking the ground. It was exhilarating. It was made more so, because I’d read a book called We Were There at the Battle of Yorktown, from a popular young adult series back in the fifties.

Got a sweet text from my daughter last night. While driving in the car yesterday, the kids had a discussion about how much they miss me.

We’re baking. Got up last night about three. This was my second night at home in two weeks. Wandered out into the dark. The porch thermometer said, 85. I went back in and dreamed of snow.

It’s been a good week. The grand-kids are in their new school. I helped around the house. Cooked a dinner. Hung curtains. Folded clothes. And did a little grocery shopping. Basically, I tried to make myself useful.

Here I sit in my second floor room in my daughter’s home looking out the window into their backyard. The house is quite. I’m quite. In a few moments, we’re getting close to seven a.m., the waking will start.

Took a walk down memory lane yesterday. Drove to the University of Houston. Parked. Went to the building formerly known as the University Center, UC for short.

Disappointment. None of my doctor’s appointments yesterday went as planned.

School days. Here we go. Lunches are packed. Clothes are laid out. Supplies are in tow. It’s the first day of school in a new school for the grand kids. Their mom and I were granted permission last night to walk with them.

I’m on a fix-it roll. Got home from Marathon. Started getting ready for Houston. It’s grand-kid time. Took one last shot at fixing the wonky seatbelt in the backseat.

In the beginning there soon came the middle and after that the end and this is the end of our trip.

I’m at an age where there might not be much left to live. I suspect that’s why I like hiking. It’s slow. It’s measured. It’s peaceful.

We got rain yesterday. A big storm blew through town just as we sat down for dinner. Gave us a nice cooling off. There was thunder and lightning all through the rest of the evening.

We had a quiet day yesterday. Drove to Balmorhea. Floated in the big pool. Drove back. Napped. Went to visit friends. There was music.

Big day yesterday. Drove into Big Bend. Went down to the river. I’m happy to report the Rio Grande is still flowing. I looked into Mexico. No one was out and about. It was too hot.

I’m in Marathon. In the silence of the morning, I can hear the train whistling its way through town. A long call in the dark night warning the unexpecting.

Oh, boy. Another day. Another road trip. It’s back to Marathon. It’s the Marathon Songwriters Festival. This is my third year. I mark the first, in 2021, as the beginning of my recovery from the loss of my wife in 2020.

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