I work with a team of people who help a friend cater meals. One meal in particular is meant to replicate a fine dining experience. The table is set as tables should be set. We dress in black. Serve from the left, pick up from the right. It’s all about decorum. But there’s always a tension around the serving and picking up as to the necessity of the form because it’s not always easy to do. I insist we try; some are more relaxed.

Yesterday I wrote about driving slow through the night, but I’ve even started driving slow through the day. It takes an effort, however, because it feels as though I’m hardwired for finding the quickest way. But lately, I’ve opted for the back roads and the side roads. The slow roads, the ones with twists and turns. The ones with things to see.

Drove home in the dark last night from a musical event. Part of the trip was down a country road. Narrow. Winding. Twisty. Full of deer. I was going slow. I had the windows down, too. The woods pressed in around me. I could hear the cicadas, crickets, and frogs singing their nighttime melodies. It would stop as I drove through pasture, start again in the woods.

At the first of this month (June), I noticed we were sharing our Post Office with the city just down the road (Blanco).  Didn’t think much of it. Thought there must have been an emergency and they needed help. But yesterday, they were still there and I asked why. The clerk said they lost their lease. That surprised me, because it didn’t seem like that was something that would sneak up on you.

The weather feels uneasy these days as though it is having a hard time making up its mind about what it wants to do. Should it rain? Should it shine? What? How about a strong wind? Maybe a good calm? We’re having hot days, but there’s so much moisture in the ground it hardly feels like summer at all, and its nearly July. By now we should be baking. Instead, we have a sauna.

Father’s Day. My day. Me as a member of the father class. I like being a father. I mostly liked coaching. I loved cheering. And I read to them every night. I was a good diaper changer, I knew how to feed, and I could pat babies to sleep. I could even handle the kids while my wife got alone time. I was hit or miss as a disciplinarian, and I could have used a touch more calmness.

A friend recently asked what I had planned for the week, and I said, “Nothing.” Except I have one or two things planned, but they’re things to which I’ve been invited. Planning implies something I’ve set up, and the legit answer these days, more often than not, is nothing. I’ve spent most of my life having to be somewhere and do something, mostly going to and from work, so the idea of meandering a through a day, a week, and even a month, is appealing.

I’ve noticed in my various feeds lots of stories about the Algerian soccer team in Kansas, and the Scottish team in Boston. It seems the World Cup has come to the Americas. All the clips are good, and they have made me feel good, because I like those sorts of clips, especially the ones with the Scots singing. But it occurred to me that given the way algorithms work they might be singling me out, because, well -- algorithms.

Another new plant has come to the garden, Ironweed, again courtesy of my arborist son. As with the bluebells, this is their second year but first to bloom. Maybe it was all the rain. Whatever the cause, the flowers are out and they look great. Now we hope they propagate. It’s not always as easy as one might think. Nature is relatively capricious that way. For instance, the false mallows he planted long ago, are still just two.

Went to a big box bookstore yesterday, Barnes & Noble. Got washed in a wave of nostalgia. Once upon a time I worked for a publisher and sold books for a living. Every year at the big industry trade show we’d collect reading copies of new books. Some years I’d bring home boxes of them. Yesterday, I felt like I was back at that trade show. I wanted one of every book on display. I restrained myself, however, budget limitations, and bought the book I wanted plus one other.

Yesterday was a day of riding around. Went to a lake, went to a river, sat and watched the sky. There was a big rain. I reported three inches at my house, but it was closer to four. When those rains come, the rivers and creeks really run. I like to go see them. Yesterday it was the Blanco River and Miller Creek. They were both running hot and muddy. It was particularly nice to see water in the creek, because lately it was a creek in name only.

It’s been a wet June. Last night I woke up to thunder and lightning and found the rain gauges nearly full this morning, registering close to three inches. That’s a hard rain. My freshly mown grass likes it as do the plants. The Barbados cherry is now bearing fruit. I refer to it in the singular, but I’m fairly certain there are now seven or eight plants clumped together. Too bad the cherries are only slightly larger than pinheads.

The yard is in need of edging, which means grass is thick around the edges in various spots. But I got a new book the other day, and I’d much rather sit and read. Of course, that’s not really the responsible thing to do, but I wonder if I’m aging out of the need to be responsible, and is it really responsible? After all I am getting soft around the edges so maybe my yard can be soft around the edges. We’d be a matched pair.

There’s a phrase, keeping it together, which applies to my life. I have a hard time doing it. Some people seem to be built like walls, brick and mortar, everything in place. I, however, feel like a loose accretion of rocks and gravel. Bits falling off, dust trailing behind, nothing stuck anywhere that will stick for long. It means that when I think I’ve got it all together something is likely to fall off.

Several months ago, I had a small get together at my house. To decorate, I bought cut flowers, put them in a vase, and set them on the island in my kitchen. My guests enjoyed them. Afterwards, I left them out until they started to wilt. Then I decided to replace them. I’ve had cut flowers on my island in my kitchen every day since then.

I wish, in my youth, that someone would have taught me how to do crossword puzzles. I think it might have helped me learn the art of patience and quiet thinking. My late wife did them, but I don’t know how she came to the practice, or what pleasure it brought here. I needed a mentor to make the suggestion then teach me the art.

I watched an ant walk the length of a table the other day. On his way to somewhere to do something, most likely look for food. But there’s no telling what his journey was about. He was just a tiny being, walking in his world, unaware of me or my world. And while I sat in a community of friends listening to music, I wondered about his community of friends. Did they miss him? Would they even know if he never came back?

I did a good thing yesterday. I got peeved and kept it to myself. That feels like progress. Although, since making the decision last November to stop talking about my pet peeves, I’m fairly certain I still talk about them on occasion. I likely unload on my friends and family, without much thought, whenever one of my pets rears its head. I guess old habits die hard.

I spent Saturday in the company of friends. Friends from the old times, the old days. From the time when life was young and tomorrow was an endless stretch of days.

As a young man, pulling on your pants one leg at a time is no big deal. As an older man it’s a test of agility and technique. Several weeks back I thought I’d forgotten how to do it.