A Painted Bunting came to visit yesterday. Out of pure serendipity, I happened to look out my window at just the right time. There he was, perched on the fence, leisurely eating seeds from the signalgrass that sprouted in the low ground by the south fence. He spent a fair amount of time there, too, and I watched as long as I could. Eventually, he hopped into the grapevines and disappeared.

There’s a scene in the movie Bridge of Spies when the attorney James Donovan, played by Tom Hanks, says during a prison interview to the spy, Rudolf Abel (played by Mark Rylance), that Abel doesn’t seem very upset or concerned that he’s facing the death penalty. Rylance looks at Hanks and says softly, “Would it help?” Since seeing that, I've asked myself that question whenever faced with what otherwise might seem to be an upsetting situation. Getting upset. Would it help?

I think you’re supposed to write like no one is looking. And that worked for a long while, until I realized people were looking. And that was okay, until I started to meet the people who were looking. Then I came to understand that while they were my audience, I knew they had opinions about other things, and I began to worry I might say something to offend them, because every once in a while, I wanted to write about something other than my yard.

The new garden along the north fence is rounding into form. The mist flowers I planted this spring have taken root and are expanding their footprint. The sage is in bloom. The chinquapin oak is flush with leaves. The yellow bells is getting ready for fall. I’ve decided to let the bindweed have the fence, but I’ve planted morning glory and alamo vine as alternatives. The latter came from seeds I potted on the porch.

It’s hard to believe I could take a vacation while in retirement, but that’s exactly how my most recent trip felt, like a vacation. It was getting away from the mundane, the pattern of an ordinary life. While I’m at home, basically, I’m a maintenance man. I clean. I cook. I tend the yard. I tend the pool. I tend my car. I keep things going. It’s pretty much the life I’ve always led. There’s not as many plates to spin, but that’s still my job.

Well, the long trip is over and it was fun. But it’s nice being home in the comfort of one's own bed. I had a long day yesterday. My flight was at 5:30, so I was up at three a.m. to get to the airport on time. But the beauty of early morning travel is the lightness of the crowds. Combine that with a small regional airport and it was smooth sailing. Of course, I flew east to west which meant by 8:30 last night I was exhausted and fell into bed without any qualms.

The house is quiet. The woods are quiet. Everyone is asleep and there’s a heavy fog on the lake. All will be gone with the sun. The quiet and the fog. The woods will stir, the house will stir and the day which has already begun will truly come to life. Bird song, kid song, wind in the leaves. It’s a nice final morning for my week in the woods.

The far shore of the lake is shrouded in a dense fog this morning, and there’s no birdsong to speak of, eerie. But fitting, given that we visited the home of Stephen King yesterday in Bangor, Maine. We must have stopped by just long enough for his spirit to catch our scent and hear that I’ve never read one of his books. I promised my traveling companions I’d remedy that oversight, so this morning’s fog is probably only a reminder.

When you sleep with the windows open and no shades drawn, morning comes right into the room as soon as it’s ready. The day starts with little regard for a clock. It’s light and time to get busy. The crows seem to wake up first then come the little songbirds followed by me, one of the people. The kids, of course, have no idea what’s going on, partly because they stayed up half the night and partly because they’re kids and more a part of nature than any adult, and like little bears, they’re going to sleep.

I’m in a cabin by a spring fed lake. I went to sleep with the windows open and the soft sound of rain all around. The sun still lingered in the sky, but I was tired and ready for bed. The light rain is still here this morning as in the sunlight because the days are long in this northern clime, partly, I imagine, to make up for what happens this winter when it disappears and the cold comes.

I’m in the northern latitudes at the side of a lake in Maine, where the loons call at night and a gentle mist rises from the water in the early morning. There’s barely a breeze and the water is smooth as glass. Kids are asleep in the living room, and I’ve had my coffee and sat outside in the cool morning air.

My hardwood mulch is growing a mushroom forest. Gray Inkcaps, lots of them. Four days of rain will do that for you. Since last Thursday more than three inches has fallen on the homestead courtesy of decaying tropical systems from Mexico and a low pressure ridge from the northwest. Every river I can name all around me is running full and the local lakes are benefitting. I hope this spasm of wet weather is a portent of better things to come. Blanco county, however, is in the grip of a drought that started in 2022 and it looks to be worse than the one we endured in 2011-2015.

The Fourth of July floods on the Guadalupe sure took the buzz off this Fourth of July weekend. I can’t stop thinking about the loss of life and especially the children, and especially the ones at camps away from their parents. If any good can come of it, I hope it’s something to help future generations remain safe. It seems the least we can do. And I hesitate to say more because the camps are already regulated, and I really have no idea what’s in place.

It rained all day yesterday. Steady. Nothing too heavy. I’ll check my rain gauge at first light. It’s likely to be close to two inches. Yesterday’s heavier rains fell west and south of here on the Guadalupe River watershed. Those rains came down fast and furious. This morning, just down the road about 30 miles in Spring Branch the river is running at 29 feet which is not the 37 feet they were forecasting, but it’s still plenty high.

It’s a drizzly, rainy morning here in central Texas which is good news if you’re a gardener, not so much if you’re a Fourth of July party planner. I’ll take the rain. At this stage of my life Fourth of July fireworks are more of a nuisance than anything else, and that was especially the case when I lived in Houston, because there was always the neighbor who liked making noise. Although if the weather improves, I might wander over to the courthouse for tonight's big show just to say I did.

I’ve been in remembering mode recently. Mostly good things. And one of those things was our first garden, early in our marriage, while I was still a student in the 70s. We lived with another couple. Communes were good. Community was good. We found a nice big old house close to downtown Houston and turned our backyard into a garden. I was an organic gardener, too, because I’d read Silent Spring and knew that while plastics might be good career advice, chemicals might not be so hot for the planet.

I’ve got four little cups of seedlings on my back porch. They’re starting to sprout. Alamo Vine and Morning Glory.  July is probably not the best time to start new plants, but I’ve got a relatively shady spot for them, and even if they don’t make it into the ground I’ve learned something from the experience that I’ll put into play going forward, and bless the internet for its help.

It’s a good feeling to sleep through to the alarm. It’s a good feeling to roll over with no pain because your DO popped your hips into alignment yesterday. It’s a good feeling to lie in bed with today’s words huddled in your brain like chickens ready to escape the coop. It’s a good feeling to sit then stand and not have the muscles in your back feel tight as knotted ropes. It’s a good feeling to know you’ll get a massage today, that will chase away the residual soreness.

It’s always interesting to me the love-hate relationship people have with plants, particularly the ones they don’t like. Crape Myrtles, for instance, are considered messy trees by some of my friends, and lantanas are equally disliked by others. We have both in our yard, and we’ve had them in every yard we ever owned. 

My run in with The Ecology of Invasion by Animals and Plants by Charles S. Elton has stirred up a lot of sediment in the old brain. I am reminded of Earth Days gone by. I remember protests on the banks of the Houston Ship Channel. I helped remove ligustrums from the park next door. I supported movements to protect animals because a short food chain is an unstable food chain. It's as though I thought the war had been won, only to realize it’s still raging. Thanks, Charlie.