As I prepare to start the journey into my ninth decade, later this year, it will be interesting to see what I take with me. Because you always have to pack for any journey, but especially a personal one. Sometimes it’s things, sometimes it’s people, but the heaviest baggage is usually personal. For instance, after I left active duty in the Navy and decided to attend college in the late 60s, I made the choices to move off (to Florida) and try to be more outgoing. They worked. I got my feet on the ground and gained self-confidence.

One thing you realize about writing every day is just how boring everyday life can be. Not boring in a bad sense, just boring in its ordinariness. I was talking to a friend last night and got the normal what-did-you-do-today question, and I had to think for a moment about what I’d say because the highlight was driving into town for guitar strings and finding the store closed, then eating lunch, which consisted of a hamburger and fries.

I have a catalog of missed opportunities and minor failures. It sits waiting in my brain for those moments when I feel the need to ruminate or brood. Typically, this happens late at night, but I’ve been known to do it while taking a walk or simply sitting in the front room. Usually it involves regret, as in, why did I do that or not do that? It feels like it’s a good time to try and break that habit, because my long life is starting to come back and bite me.

More about aging. I think I’m going to approach this journey through my ninth decade as I would any of the moves we made as a child, or the changes I encountered as an adult. It’s an opportunity, a thing to be explored, embraced. Besides, I’ve never gone into any decade of my life thinking I knew what was waiting at the end. Why should this one be any different? Granted, the actuarial tables are against me, but why assume the mean?

I confess. I never thought much about my age. Never fretted over it. Never worried about what it meant when the calendar turned over a new page. I had a great party at fifty and another at 65, but life had other plans at 70 and 75. This year, however, is different. Assuming nothing happens between now and July, I’ll be 80. I think I’m going to lean into it.

Something dug up the front yard last night a little more aggressively that one might expect from an armadillo or a skunk. Has the trappings of hog work. Deep holes, lots of dirt thrown around. Unfortunately, I moved the camera monitoring that part of the yard to another location the other day. So, I was blind to the nighttime activity. I guess I’ll need to bring in another camera.

Interesting work editing your own material. Although, it might be more precise to say I’m repackaging it. Editing will come later. At the moment, I’m working on what goes and what stays. I don’t suppose it hurts to talk about it. It’s not like I’m giving away any plot lines. It’s merely an annotated compilation of my already published writing on the subject of grief.

I drove to the store yesterday. The first time since last week and the start of the storm that I’ve been out of the house to do something other than casually walk around in the yard. A big patch of ice on the driveway gave me pause for the longest time. But as the day warmed yesterday, I felt safe enough to brave it, so off I went. I don’t recall being so timid, but I guess age does that to you. Besides, there was nothing compulsory going on, so why not stay home?

My two AI assistants are proving invaluable. My first book, The Long Goodbye, was published through Gatewood Press using Amazon (print and eBook). I wanted to see how much it would cost to publish my second book, Learning to Live, which is now in the works. In about 30 seconds I got two reports. There was a slight difference between them, but a second query cleared it up. I also wanted to explore alternatives. Again, the reports were clean and easy to use. Bottom line, I’m sticking with Gatewood Press and Amazon.

The storm is done and the sun is melting the ice and snow. Winter is once again backing off. There are still patches in the shade, but today’s high promises to send most of it packing. I might venture out. Mostly I’ve stayed on the porch since I’m no fan of ice and falls. And when I do walk around, I have a pole for support. Apparently, age brings a sort of wisdom, or a low tolerance for risk of bodily injury.

I’ve started work on my new book, Learning to Live. It’s about me navigating the murky waters of grief. It starts the day after my wife died and continues to this day. It’s a personal story because grief is a personal story. But the hope in publishing is that by telling my tales, a struggling reader might find a thought or an idea that proves useful, provides relief, gives hope, and says, you’re not alone.

Stepped outside this morning to feed the cats, and the cold air greeted me like a rapacious animal, anxious to steal every ounce of my warmth. Icy fingers slipped beneath my jacket, inched up my pants legs, and tweaked my ears. Foolishly, I’d gone out in slippers and pajamas, wearing a thin house jacket. Luckily, the cat houses are on the southern porch and close to the door. I dropped off the food and scurried back inside.

I feel a little silly going on about this, but when your weather is the exception, rather than the rule, it’s what you talk about. It’s cold, below freezing cold. And it’s going to rain, sleet and maybe snow. The accumulation forecast looks to be light, but I’m not one to judge. I’m only here to accept my fate, although I’ll be inside so it’s not much of a terror unless something breaks, and I think the chances there are low.

If you’re prone to anxiety as, am I, then the internet is the worst thing that ever happened. It knows what interests you and gives it to you, in spades. Take the coming winter storm as it pertains to Central Texas. In its simplest form the storm is bringing cold and ice and possibly snow. But internet Cassandras are out in full force. They remind us of Snowpacolypse. They talk about ice. They warn of power outages. They are shrill. They are loud. They are constant. Why? Clicks!

I swung a Mattock Pick yesterday to bust up the root ball of a plant I was trying to remove. It didn’t take me long to realize these old limbs aren’t what they used to be. Brute force is no longer my forte especially for extended periods. That’s a slightly sad feeling. But that’s okay, at least I’m still trying. I’m just going to manage it in bursts. Whack it once or twice, then dig a little. Sometimes patience pays off. Besides, what’s the hurry?

Things will freeze this weekend. The forecast low for Saturday and Sunday is 13. That’s cold in anyone’s book. Rain chances are mixed. But there will be enough ice to give an old man pause when it comes to walking outside. I think I’ll get my hiking poles out for the extra support if I do need to get around. Mostly I think I’ll just stand on the porch and watch.

I find it deeply ironic that Indiana, a proverbial loser, won the National title in college football doing exactly what earned the Southern Methodist Mustangs the death penalty in 1987—paying players. My, how the times have changed. And I think it’s fair to say parity has come to college football courtesy of NIL and profit sharing, because even Vanderbilt is winning.

Finally, it feels like winter. The heavy cold has arrived. It feels good and is a nice way to scrub off the final memories of a hot summer. Of course, there was no rain with the recent front, which is unfortunate, because we could use the rain. But I’m tired of speaking of how the dryline has moved. This is simply our lot in life now. Dry days and water tables sacrificed to satisfy developers and irrigators.

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I strapped on a new set of strings and went to the open mic last night at the Villa at Gruene, hosted by my young friend Bo Brumble. It was a coolish evening, but the heaters were running and I had cup of black coffee to warm me up and help me focus. I played my three songs, then sat to visit with Bo and listen to the other musicians. It was a pleasant night with good company all around.

I had a full day yesterday. Got a good result from a doctor. Changed the oil in my new-to-me car. Bought a few groceries. Edited a few videos. Watched a package I sent to my son in Cypress go all the way to New Orleans as it made its way to him. Seems rather roundabout, but I cannot pretend I understand the mysteries of postal shipping. Nor do I understand most of life’s mysteries.