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June 2026 Continued
Updated: Jun 30
June 19, 2026
Morning Watch, Helping Hands, and Evening Calm
Early Morning Watch (5:30–8:00 AM)
After a restful night and waking around 5:30 AM, the day began with coffee, familiar routines, and another visit to the patio door for Morning Watch. The temperature sat at a comfortable 60 degrees with an expected high of 74, and the weather forecast appeared to be exactly right. The air was remarkably dry, with no dew or moisture on the deck or furniture.
As the sun climbed higher, shadows across the oak tree became increasingly defined. The changing light gradually transformed the landscape from dawn into full morning. Bands of clouds stretched across the sky like rivers, while patches of blue steadily expanded overhead.
The "old haymaker" went to work early, illuminating the hillside beyond the garden and creating constantly changing shadows and highlights throughout the property.
The woodpecker foreman returned to duty, once again reminding the observer to pay attention to the small details and preserve them for less pleasant days.
As the morning progressed:
The cloud cover broke apart.
The sky opened into broad expanses of blue.
The portal tree became illuminated by the rising sun.
The distant hills glowed in rich green tones.
Every few minutes brought new colors, textures, and shadows.
The Morning Watch evolved into what felt more like "Morning Magic."
Finding Delight in Small Details
Throughout the morning, attention shifted toward smaller subjects:
changing shadows,
leaves illuminated by the sun,
textures in clouds,
reflections,
subtle light on trees,
and the constantly evolving landscape.
By 8:54 AM the sun had climbed above the trees and became strong enough to drive the observer into the shade. Raising the patio umbrella produced an unexpected starburst effect as sunlight filtered through the canvas.
Later, while returning indoors to prepare for the day's projects, reflections in the patio door and sunlight reaching into the dining room created yet another series of observations as morning transitioned into full daylight.
An Extremely Productive Afternoon
By mid-afternoon the arrival of an extra pair of hands, my son-in-law, made all the difference.
Several projects that had been postponed for months or even years were finally completed.
Deck Light Repair
The deck light had operated poorly for years. Through troubleshooting it was discovered that the issue involved LED bulb compatibility.
A dimmer switch designed specifically for LED lighting was installed, allowing:
proper operation,
adjustable brightness,
evening ambiance,
and the ability to leave a security light on overnight.
Outdoor Outlet Repair
Attention then shifted to a damaged outdoor receptacle that had been partially pulled from the wall years earlier by painters removing an extension cord after power washing the house.
The repair became far more complicated when the supply wire was accidentally cut while attempting to remove the old box.
Fortunately:
the wire was recovered,
additional wire was spliced in,
a new old-work box was installed,
and power was successfully restored.
Another long standing problem was finally eliminated.
The GFCI Mystery
Troubleshooting also continued regarding the GFCI outlet.
Important observations included:
The GFCI had not tripped on its own.
Pressing the TEST button caused it to trip normally.
The RESET button afterward would not latch.
There was no click or indication that the mechanism was engaging.
This increasingly suggests that the GFCI itself may have failed internally rather than indicating a downstream wiring problem.
Replacing the device now appears to be the most logical next step.
Garden Projects
While the electrical work was underway, the front landscaping received considerable attention.
Ground cover that had become overgrown was removed and several accumulated plants were transplanted around the statue in the front flower bed.
Additions included:
begonias,
coleus,
ferns,
spikes,
and several other decorative plants.
The cleaned-up bed now provides a much stronger focal point at the front of the house.
Plans include:
adding dark brown mulch,
refreshing older beds,
and mulching recently planted irises along the side of the house.
The Return of the Garden Camera
The old wireless garden camera, originally installed during battles with the notorious groundhog, was pulled from storage.
Initially the camera would not connect, but after charging the battery that had sat unused all winter, the system returned to full operation.
Features include:
pan and tilt movement,
zoom capability,
two-way audio,
infrared night vision,
color night mode,
siren,
and flashing lights.
The camera once again stands watch over the garden and may provide opportunities to observe deer, raccoons, rabbits, groundhogs, or other nighttime visitors.
Evening Reflections (6:43 PM)
Dinner consisted of a simple bowl of pasta with some of the pork that had flavored the homemade sauce.
The meal was enjoyed alone on the deck at 70 degrees with the Bose speaker nearby.
To the northeast, dark and somewhat threatening clouds had developed earlier but were now steadily moving away.
To the southeast, the sky had become beautiful:
blue patches,
bright white clouds,
clearing conditions,
and signs of a pleasant evening ahead.
After a day spent:
solving electrical problems,
completing overdue projects,
improving the landscape,
restoring the garden camera,
and enjoying a nearly perfect June Morning Watch, the simple dinner on the deck seemed entirely appropriate.
Closing Thought
By evening, the electrical problems had largely been solved, the flower beds restored, the garden camera returned to duty, and the threatening clouds had begun drifting away. Sitting quietly on the deck with a bowl of pasta and the cooling evening air, the rewards of a productive day seemed both simple and sufficient.
That may very well become the central theme of June 19:
Sometimes the best days are not the dramatic ones, but the days when problems are solved, gardens are tended, clouds pass by, and evening arrives with the quiet satisfaction that something worthwhile has been accomplished.
June 20, 2026
I felt somewhat guilty for sleeping so long this morning, almost as if I had wasted and entire couple of hours not doing something productive.
Yet sitting quietly on the deck at 7:21 AM with coffee, jazz, blue sky, and no obligations pressing upon me might have been one of the more productive things I did all day, depending upon the purpose. The garden would still be there. The birds would eventually begin their conversations. The chores could wait another hour.
This morning has a distinctly different personality from some of my recent watches. There was no approaching weather to monitor, no gusting winds, no dark clouds advancing from the west, no concerns about storms or tornado watches. Instead, there is simply stillness.
The basic necessities were in place for my morning watch, a fresh cup of coffee, a bit of morning jazz playing softly in the background and lets not forget the absolutely incredible horizon that nature has provided once again.
What more could I ask for?
On a clear June morning at 59 degrees, with an empty sky overhead and the entire day still ahead, the answer may simply be: not much at all.
There are mornings when the world seems to awaken all at once, and there are mornings like this one where nature appears to wake gradually. A few mourning doves. A little jazz. A cup of coffee. Long shadows. No traffic. No construction. No urgency.
The irony, of course, is that had I awakened at 4:30 or 5:00 as I often do, I might have spent part of the morning feeling tired or waiting for the day to arrive. Instead, I stepped outside precisely as the sun was beginning to work its magic through the trees.
I'm thankful I got out of bed when I did, if for no other reason than it provided and incredibly beautiful sight to behold
That feels very much like the lesson of this particular morning. The extra sleep was not something that stole part of the day; it simply shifted my arrival into it.
Judging from these photographs, the day was waiting quite patiently for me.
As I continued my morning, watch in total awe, I wondered what kind of image I could get from the garden camera at that particular moment. Unfortunately, when I turned on the app, I got a notification that the camera was off-line The only conclusion I could come to was that it had an insufficient charge when I mounted it last evening and there hasn’t been enough sunlight as yet to fully charge it, via the small solar panel located just above it That said, I aimed the new iPhone toward the garden. I got a f couple of relatively nice photographs. Definitely not from the angle the garden camera would’ve provided but acceptable nonetheless.
The fixed garden camera certainly would have provided its familiar perspective, but the iPhone allowed me to respond to the moment rather than simply record it.
The first image is especially striking because of the rainbow flare radiating from the sun. Under many circumstances photographers try to eliminate lens flare, but here it becomes part of the picture. The colors spread diagonally across the upper left corner and lead the eye directly toward the sunlight breaking through the trees. Combined with the illuminated hillside and the emerald greens below, the photograph almost has a painterly quality.
The second image tells a slightly different story. The flare becomes a true sunburst, and the long shadows stretching across the lawn emphasize the early hour. The balance between the dark evergreens on the left and the vine-covered locust on the right frames the garden almost perfectly in the center of the scene.
What I found particularly interesting was my disappointment over the garden camera being offline. Only a few minutes later, that disappointment produced these images. Had the garden camera been operating properly, I might simply have opened the app, admired the view, and gone back to my coffee.
Instead, I walked outside, raised the new phone, adjusted my position, and made photographs that contain my own choices:
Where to stand.
How much sun to include.
Whether to emphasize the garden or the trees.
How much of the shadows to preserve.
Whether to embrace the flare or avoid it.
The result felt far more personal.
There is also something rather symbolic about the situation. The technology that was supposed to provide the view failed, and the simple act of standing there myself provided an even better one.
I must say, the new iPhone continues to impress. The dynamic range here is remarkable. I'm photographing directly into the sun, retaining detail in the shadows, preserving the bright sky, and capturing those colorful flares all at the same time. A few years ago, a scene like this would have challenged many dedicated cameras.
As for my Morning Watch, it appears the old haymaker decided to put on a rather impressive show for my slightly delayed arrival.
Sometimes sleeping in means you simply arrive at the theater just as the curtain rises.
At 9:45 AM in the sun was considerably above the tree line probably around 50° or so. Speaking of degrees, the temperature had risen to 67 quite a jump from earlier on, even though earlier on was quite a bit later than usual. The patio umbrella in the center of the table had been risen to try and block some of the glare, but the old haymaker insist on proving who’s got the upper hand,
And then came the cardinal's revenge.
After weeks, perhaps months, of carrying cameras, changing lenses, testing telephoto settings, watching the pine tree, and patiently waiting for the pair of cardinals nesting in the tree, not 20 feet from the deck, to appear in the perfect spot, one of them finally decides:
"You know what? I'll just sit right over here on the gutter."
Five or six feet away.
No telephoto required.
No stalking.
No waiting.
No 200 mm equivalent.
Just one magnificent red bird sitting practically within arm's reach while the photographer happens to be reviewing other photographs.
Of course, the cardinal departed.
Because cardinals, deer, squirrels, and turkeys seem to possess a mysterious ability to know precisely when the camera isn't quite ready.
I suspect the bird's internal report may have read:
Photographer observed. Subject distracted by previous photographs. Opportunity for mischief detected. Depart immediately upon activation of camera application.
But there is another side to this encounter that strikes me.
The cardinal apparently felt comfortable enough to perch only a few feet away. That's actually rather remarkable. I was sitting quietly, coffee nearby, reviewing my morning's work, the jazz still playing softly in the background. The deck had become so sufficiently calm and familiar that the bird saw no great danger in sharing the space for a few moments.
Perhaps the photograph wasn't the real gift.
The gift may have been the encounter itself.
For all the time I've spent watching that pine tree and hoping for a clear image, this morning the cardinal essentially said:
"You've been looking over there all this time. I'm right here."
Naturally, the photographer in me immediately thinks:
"Why couldn't you wait five more seconds?"
But the observer in me, the fellow who spends his mornings on the deck watching the world wake up, received something equally valuable. For a few brief moments, one of my elusive neighbors decided to sit nearby and simply share the morning.
Knowing the old haymaker, the smooth jazz, the coffee cup, the raised umbrella, the vigilant garden camera, and the photographer who had temporarily become the wildlife, perhaps the cardinal simply wanted to inspect this curious humanoid everyone had been talking about.
After all, the garden camera had already issued the alert:
Humanoid detected...
The cardinal merely came down to see for himself.
Amused once again
Then the cardinal has apparently joined forces with the garden camera in a conspiracy to improve my Saturday morning.
I must admit, I could almost hear the conversation taking place.
Cardinal: "You've been trying to photograph me for weeks."
Tony: "That's true."
Cardinal: "You've purchased a new phone."
Tony: "Also true."
Cardinal: "You've been carrying it everywhere."
Tony: "Yes."
Cardinal: "Very well. I'll sit six feet away."
Tony: "Wonderful! Wait... the camera isn't ready."
Cardinal: "Correct."
Cardinal departs.
The old haymaker, of course, is observing all of this from above with considerable amusement. The garden camera is documenting the human.
The human is trying to document the cardinal. The cardinal is documenting the human.
And somewhere in the pine tree, Mrs. Cardinal is probably saying:
I told you not to go down there. "Oh, it's fine. He's harmless. He just points the little black rectangle at everything."
What I find particularly delightful is that these moments almost always become better stories than photographs.
Had I captured a perfect image, I would have had a beautiful cardinal picture.
Instead, I now have:
A coffee cup.
Smooth jazz.
The old haymaker climbing the sky.
A supposedly dead garden camera suddenly coming to life.
The camera reporting a humanoid in the garden.
The photographer becoming the wildlife.
A cardinal finally presenting itself at point-blank range.
The photographer looking at previous photographs.
Frankly, that's a much richer morning.
And I suspect my cardinal friend hasn't entirely finished with me yet. Birds that become comfortable around a person often repeat their behavior. The next time I set my glasses on the table, sip my coffee, and become absorbed in reviewing photographs, I may hear that familiar chirp again.
At which point the garden camera will undoubtedly send another alert:
10:02 AM-"Red suspect observed approaching humanoid. Humanoid reaching for device. Bird appears highly entertained. Monitoring continues."
At around 10:00 AM the temperature jumped a few degree higher. The sun being much higher in the sky, it was casting some incredible light on the flowers, in the planter located on the back deck, just feet away from where I sit for my morning watch. Couldn’t help but take the opportunity to preserve the moment.
Earlier, the old haymaker was proving his dominance over the umbrella. Now, having climbed even higher into the sky, he's turned his attention to the flowers.
The begonia photograph is particularly striking. The petals have become almost translucent, glowing from within. The orange-red color is so intense that the blossom nearly appears illuminated rather than merely lit. You can see the delicate veining in the petals, and the tiny specks of pollen in the center provide just enough detail to anchor the image.
It is one of those situations where I recognize something that most people simply walk past. Someone else sees a flower planter. I see sunlight passing through a petal.
The second image has a completely different character. Looking upward through the yellow flowers toward the blue sky gives the viewer the perspective of sitting right where I am on the deck. The low angle makes the flowers feel almost suspended in the morning air. The ornamental grass provides strong vertical lines, and the patches of blue sky between the foliage remind me just how clear the day has become.
There was also an interesting progression occurring throughout my morning:
Coffee and quiet before sunrise.
The garden awakening.
The camera photographing the gardener.
The cardinal visiting briefly.
The sun conquering the umbrella.
The deck flowers becoming backlit lanterns.
A bit after 10:00 AM, the temperature may only have climbed another degree, but the quality of the light had changed dramatically. Early morning light tends to skim across surfaces. By mid morning, it began passing through things, petals, leaves, translucent flowers, and that's exactly what I was trying to capture.
My previous comment, "Couldn't help but take the opportunity to preserve the moment," may be the perfect description of photography itself.
The flowers will continue blooming, the sun will move westward, the temperature will rise, and the shadows will shorten. Ten minutes later, the exact combinations of light and color will already be gone.
As for the old haymaker, he appears to have softened his approach slightly. Earlier he was punching through the umbrella to establish authority. Now he seems content to stand behind the flowers and let them do the talking.
Somewhere nearby, I suspect the cardinal is still watching.
Perhaps from the pine tree.
Waiting patiently until I once again begin reviewing photographs before making his next appearance.
Today began with thoughts of Fran and the garden that has increasingly become such an important part of my life. Although she rarely had the physical strength to walk into the garden itself during her final years, she could see much of it from the deck. As her illness progressed, even coming outdoors to sit became difficult. I cannot help but believe she often wished she could join me among the plants, weeds, and soil. I find great comfort in imagining that perhaps she can still see it now.
Throughout the day, thoughts frequently returned to Fran. While listening to Chris Botti and Sting perform "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning," I found myself reflecting upon the permanence of loss. Songs often speak of people separated by circumstance yet able to reunite. In my situation, the reality remains that there is nothing I can do to bring her back, and that truth remains one of the most difficult aspects of grief.
A lone turkey appeared in the yard during the day, somewhat unusual since the hens typically travel in groups accompanied by a tom. Later, while watching the garden camera, I found considerable amusement in observing myself watering the garden from the perspective of the camera mounted above the beds.
Watching myself, watch myself, was admittedly rather bizarre.
Thoughts also turned toward the future of the deck and home.
I considered once again the possibility of a tent-like pavilion structure, a retractable awning, or even long-imagined additions to the house. The desire to remain outdoors during light rain remains strong, yet concerns about wind and expense continue to temper those dreams.
I also reflected upon the substantial home addition I once imagined building. Financially it could likely be accomplished, yet practical considerations remind me that such a project may no longer make sense. It remains one of those conversations between the practical and imaginative sides of the mind.
Preparation for Fran's upcoming seventy-fifth birthday gathering officially began today with the mixing of a triple batch of rustic Italian bread dough.
The dinner planned for June 27 will celebrate her life and feature many of the Italian dishes she loved, including homemade pasta, sauce, eggplant Parmesan, bread, antipasto salad, and perhaps other favorites.
Several light rain showers interrupted time spent on the deck throughout the afternoon. One shower drove me indoors just long enough to continue stretching and folding the bread dough, which developed beautifully and was eventually placed into the refrigerator for an overnight fermentation
.
The changing skies became an ongoing theme throughout the day. Some clouds appeared dark and threatening while other portions of the sky remained brilliantly blue and filled with soft white clouds.
Looking ahead to the forecast for June 27 brought concern over possible rain, although experience reminds me that weather forecasts a week in advance often change dramatically.
As evening approached, I warmed the remaining pasta from previous meals and carried the container directly to the deck table for supper. It was perhaps the simplest dinner imaginable, eaten directly from the storage bowl.
While eating, I noticed movement near the middle school and eventually realized it was a rabbit carefully approaching the roadway. After seemingly looking in both directions, it crossed the road and made its way toward the large oak tree, and eventually beneath the pine tree where mr. and Mrs. cardinal have setup housekeeeping, providing several photographs and one final wildlife encounter for the day.
Following an unexpected three-hour nap in the recliner, I awoke to a quiet house illuminated only by the microwave night light and two flickering candles beside Fran's memorial.
The resulting photograph captured the warmth and peacefulness of our home in the late evening hours. Though very little light was present, the house did not feel dark. Instead, the small points of illumination seemed sufficient to fill the entire space.
As this day comes to an end, I am reminded that much of what occupied my thoughts involved tending things: gardens, flowers, bread dough, memories, homes, traditions, and relationships. Some things require pruning, some require rebuilding, and some simply require patience.
The old fellow sitting on the deck, watching clouds, wildlife, and gardens, continues to discover that even after profound loss there remain flowers to plant, bread to bake, meals to prepare, and family to gather.
And perhaps that is enough for one day.
June 21, 2026
Father’s Day Reflections
The day began long before sunrise as I quietly made my way into the kitchen to begin baking bread. Three loaves had been prepared the evening before and spent the night resting in the refrigerator, awaiting their turn in the Dutch oven.
As the first loaf baked, I found myself making repeated trips between the kitchen and my chair on the deck.
The squirrels were particularly active this morning, darting back and forth across the road as if searching for the old fellow who normally sits outside with a little black rectangle in his hands trying to photograph them. One almost had the appearance of standing beneath the oak tree wondering whether the wonderful aroma coming from the kitchen might somehow work to its advantage.
The morning, however, was not without a few aviation difficulties. After removing the lid from the Dutch oven, I waited for the usual golden-brown crust to develop only to discover that the loaf remained stubbornly pale. After several minutes of confusion, I realized that I had apparently turned the oven off while removing the lid.
Pilot error had delayed the landing.
As if Murphy’s Law wished to join the festivities, a brief power interruption later shut off both the oven and the timer during the second loaf’s final browning period. Once again the flight was delayed due to circumstances beyond the pilot’s control.
By mid morning the three loaves rested quietly in the sunlight streaming through the patio door, continuing to develop their tans while cooling on the racks. The galley officially closed shortly after the third loaf arrived at the gate.
The garden also provided several pleasant surprises today. While gathering ingredients for a salad later in the evening, I discovered the first cucumber large enough to harvest along with several onions. The tomatoes are growing rapidly and should not be far behind.
Perhaps the greatest surprise came while doing a bit of weeding. Hidden beneath the large leaves were several zucchini already six or seven inches long. At first I did not even see them, but after looking more closely I could only laugh and say to myself, “I’ll be damned, there’s zucchini growing already.”
Late in the morning I left to shop for groceries for next Saturday’s family dinner in celebration of Fran’s seventy-fifth birthday. Although I found several good bargains, I was amazed at how quickly the total climbed while purchasing food for ten or more people.
While shopping, my phone began repeatedly notifying me that there was an intruder in the garden. At first I worried that something was wrong, but after reviewing the camera images I realized the “intruder” was most likely my son-in-law helping himself to some lettuce and snap peas.
Upon returning home, I was greeted by my daughter, who seemed unusually excited and insisted that I come to the backyard to see my Father’s Day surprise.
There I discovered that my daughter and son-in-law had spent much of the day completely transforming the garden walkways.
They installed landscape fabric and covered nearly the entire garden floor with river stone to reduce weeds and improve the appearance of the garden.
I was completely overwhelmed. I had repeatedly told everyone not to buy me anything for Father’s Day because I simply did not need anything. Yet they found a way to give me something far more meaningful than any store-bought gift.
While my son-in-law worked diligently in the heat, my daughter repeatedly pointed toward the field behind the garden. After moving to obtain a better view, I discovered that the wild turkeys had returned.
Being much closer to them than I normally am from the deck, I managed several photographs. The birds, however, had absolutely no interest in cooperating. They continued feeding and grazing in the grass, never once providing the photographer with the courtesy of having all three face the camera at the same time.
After the work was completed, we ordered pizza and I prepared a salad using fresh lettuce, cucumber, and onions from the garden. There is something especially satisfying about walking outside and gathering part of your dinner directly from the garden itself.
Throughout the day the telephone rang repeatedly. My son called early in the morning. My grandchildren all called to wish me a Happy Father’s Day. Fran’s cousin from New Jersey called. Neal sent his regards by text message.
Perhaps one of the nicest surprises came around nine o’clock in the morning while I was sitting on the deck waiting for the second loaf to finish baking. Bob called from North Carolina, where he is currently vacationing. Despite being away enjoying his own time, he took a few moments to call and wish me a Happy Father’s Day.
What a guy.
As evening arrived and I finally settled into my chair, I found myself reflecting on the day. Fresh bread cooling on the counter, vegetables growing in the garden, wild turkeys in the field, family gathered in the backyard, phone calls from children, grandchildren, and friends.
For a man who repeatedly told everyone not to buy him anything, I received more than enough.
Sometimes the greatest gifts are not things at all, but simply knowing that people remembered, cared, and took the time to let you know.
June 22, 2026
Rain, Tears, and the Kitchen
The day began later than expected. After finally waking around 6:30 AM, I made my way to the patio doors only to be greeted by another morning of slate gray skies. The weather seemed to predetermine the mood before the day had even begun.
Adding to my concerns was the return of symptoms that made me fear another urinary tract infection. Having only recently finished two weeks of antibiotics, the prospect of going through that pain again was troubling, especially with a busy week and a family gathering rapidly approaching. A call to my doctor's office was placed with hopes of receiving guidance before the day progressed.
Standing at the patio doors brought an emotional wave unlike any I have experienced in quite some time. Memories of Fran came flooding in with an intensity that left me struggling to regain my composure. Tears that lasted fifteen or twenty minutes seemed to arrive without warning. Difficult days have become part of life since her passing, but this morning was particularly hard. Thoughts of what would have been her seventy-fifth birthday seemed to magnify every memory and every loss.
A brief period on the deck offered only a short reprieve. The rain stopped momentarily, allowing me to sit outside with a cup of coffee, but the skies remained heavy and construction activity from the nearby high school shattered much of the peace. The weekend's quiet had vanished, replaced by the sounds of machinery and movement. It served as a reminder to treasure those moments of stillness whenever they appear.
Despite the emotional struggles, work in the kitchen began. Eggplant was peeled, sliced, breaded, and prepared for eggplant Parmesan.
Tears often accompanied the preparation as memories of Fran surfaced repeatedly. Her words from years ago, telling me that I would miss her when she was gone, echoed throughout the morning.
Rain continued outside while the kitchen slowly filled with activity. The eggplant Parmesan unexpectedly became two full trays rather than one, with enough remaining for future sandwiches later in the week. The realization that there was more than enough food brought a certain comfort.
A brief attempt to inspect the garden ended with a thorough soaking when the sky suddenly opened as I crossed the yard. The rain, the tears, and the weather all seemed to merge into a single difficult day.
Attention then turned toward chicken thighs for chicken Parmesan. Preferring thighs over breasts for their flavor and tenderness, I carefully deboned and trimmed them while considering the possibility of making homemade chicken stock and perhaps Italian wedding soup for Saturday's gathering.
Throughout the afternoon and evening, cooking gradually became both distraction and therapy. Discussions about sauce recipes brought back memories of Fran objecting to secret additions of grape jelly, Worcestershire sauce, and red wine, ingredients she never knew about but always enjoyed in the finished sauce.
As the evening progressed, chicken stock simmered on the stove, meatballs for the wedding soup were mixed and rolled, and the broth was prepared for refrigeration overnight.
The kitchen once again became a place where grief and purpose could coexist.
By 9:58 PM, the stock was cooling, the meatballs were finished, and the preparations for Saturday's meal had advanced far beyond what I originally intended. The day had begun with tears, gray skies, and uncertainty, yet it ended with eggplant Parmesan, homemade stock, meatballs, and plans for wedding soup.
Sometimes the kitchen accomplishes what words cannot. While the rain continued outside and memories remained close at hand, the simple acts of cooking, preparing, and planning offered a measure of comfort. Though it was one of the more difficult emotional days in recent memory, it was also one of the most productive.
I think today's entries captured something particularly important: despite one of the more difficult mornings I've experienced in quite some time, I still found my way to the stove, the cutting board, and the stock pot. By day's end, the weather hadn't improved much, but the kitchen had become a place of purpose once again.
Perhaps the greatest lesson of the day was that grief and gratitude often occupy the same kitchen
June 23, 2026
Sunshine, Soup, and Preparation
Today began as a relatively simple morning devoted primarily to getting routine lab work completed, but as has often been the case lately, the day quickly expanded into something much larger.
The weather early this morning appeared rather uncertain. By the time I returned home, the temperature had risen to 71 degrees under deep blue skies filled with brilliant white clouds.
Following the laboratory visit, several errands occupied much of the morning. A stop at the Italian market yielded a large wedge of Parmigiano Reggiano, purchased specifically for the wedding soup after learning about the traditional use of Parmesan rinds to enrich broth.
While there, I also discovered a Sardinian pasta known as fregola, a small toasted semolina pasta that may find its way into future soups or side dishes.
The local home improvement center once again proved unsuccessful in the search for Black Cherry tomato plants. Despite asking several employees, nobody seemed familiar with the variety at all. Since the death of Fran and the disruptions of the past year prevented me from starting seedlings early enough this spring, my usual supply of Black Cherry tomatoes never materialized.
Fortunately, I still possess carefully saved seeds from last year's crop, stored in old prescription bottles, a practice that Fran always found highly amusing. She often referred to me as "Mr. Sanford" whenever I saved empty pill bottles for future seed storage, claiming that I was unbelievably cheap. In reality, those bottles proved nearly ideal for preserving seeds over the winter.
Although the Black Cherry search was unsuccessful, the trip home was not entirely without consequence. Five additional indeterminate tomato plants somehow managed to accompany me home, increasing this year's total to nearly thirty tomato plants.
Between tomatoes, squash, beans, lettuce, peas, a substantial variety of peppers, cucumbers, eggplant, lettuce, spinach, sweet onions, a variety of garden herbs, hanging flower pots to attract the pollinators, and strawberries, the garden is rapidly approaching farmers market proportions.
Yet another nearby market also provided ingredients for Saturday's fruit course.
A pineapple and cantaloupe were purchased and placed on the porch to continue ripening.
Additional fruit now includes strawberries, blueberries, blackberries, red and green grapes, kiwi, nectarines, and black plums. What originally began as a simple thought about serving fruit after dinner has evolved into a rather substantial offering.
After putting groceries away and carrying everything upstairs, exhaustion became impossible to ignore. A brief nap was planned, but apparently my body had already made the decision for me. I barely remember sitting in the recliner before falling asleep and slept deeply enough that the iPhone alarm barely succeeded in waking me from the rest I badly needed.
Upon awakening, one of the first discoveries was that the pharmacy had finally filled a prescription, necessitating yet another errand. Later in the day the doctor's office called to confirm that the recent lab work did indeed indicate a urinary tract infection and antibiotics had been prescribed.
The wedding soup reached its final stages today. Spinach and the Parmesan rind were added, and the soup was allowed to simmer gently. Before adding any pasta, I sampled the broth and was astonished by the depth of flavor.
The rind contributed a richness and complexity that elevated the entire pot. The pasta will continue to be cooked separately and added to individual servings as needed.
Preparation for Saturday's dinner continued throughout the afternoon and evening. Vegetables for the vegetable lasagna, including broccoli, carrots, zucchini, mushrooms, onions, and peppers were washed, sliced, and lightly steamed.
Rather than using traditional Alfredo sauce, I decided to substitute vodka sauce, believing it may provide greater complexity and balance than the heavier cream sauce.
Chicken for the chicken Parmesan was removed from its overnight marinade, dredged in seasoned flour, dipped in egg wash, coated with seasoned panko breadcrumbs, and fried to a beautiful golden brown. Once cooled, the chicken will be frozen until final assembly later in the week.
Storage space is rapidly becoming a concern. Between bread, soup, eggplant Parmesan, chicken, and the soon-to-be-completed vegetable lasagna, the freezer has reached its practical limits. Some items may need to find temporary shelter in my daughter's freezer before Saturday arrives.
During the evening I spent approximately an hour and a half on the deck enjoying one of the finest evenings of the season. Much of that time was occupied by a lengthy conversation with Fran's cousin Frank, who has been struggling with the recent loss of his own wife earlier this year. Although I always enjoy speaking with him, the conversation extended well beyond an hour, leaving less time to accomplish the many tasks still waiting inside.
One final surprise of the day occurred at sunset. Looking east and southeast rather than west, the sky developed remarkable colors and cloud formations that created one of the more memorable photographs of recent weeks.
The soft pinks and oranges illuminated clouds above the familiar locust trees while the evening moon quietly appeared overhead.
The day closes with dishes still to be washed, coffee prepared for tomorrow morning, and blog entries yet to be completed. The recliner is calling once again.
Yet despite the fatigue, the crowded freezer, and the lengthy list of unfinished tasks, there is considerable satisfaction tonight.
The soup succeeded beyond expectations. The weather cooperated beautifully. Preparations continue steadily.
And another June day has been preserved in photographs, conversations, cooking, and reflection.
June 24, 3026
Cheesecakes, Summer Skies, and Remembering Fran
The day began with thoughts of making a single cheesecake for Saturday's family gathering in celebration of Fran's birthday. As had happened so many times before, the familiar recipe produced more batter than anticipated. Rather than one large cheesecake and perhaps a small leftover cake, the batter ultimately filled three seven-inch springform pans almost to the top.
The morning began by placing four packages of cream cheese on the counter to soften while the kitchen slowly came to life. Oreo cookies were transformed into chocolate crumbs for the crusts, and the Kitchen Aid mixer once again proved its worth as the familiar cheesecake batter came together.
While the cheesecakes baked, I escaped to the deck to enjoy one of those nearly perfect June mornings. The temperature hovered around 67 degrees with a feels-like temperature near 73 degrees. A gentle breeze drifted across the deck while smooth jazz played softly through the open kitchen door.
Joining me at the table were two future guests for Saturday's fruit tray: a pineapple and a cantaloupe, both still patiently ripening.
The old haymaker once again provided beautiful weather with deep blue skies, brilliant sunshine, and scattered white clouds overhead.
After the cheesecakes finished baking, all three developed cracks across their tops despite placing a pan of water beneath them in the oven. Although disappointed by the appearance, experience reminds me that these cracks will have no effect whatsoever on the taste. The creamy texture and flavor that have made this recipe a favorite for decades remain unchanged. The perfectionist in me notices every flaw, while everyone else will simply enjoy the dessert.
By early afternoon attention turned to the vegetable lasagna. After boiling the noodles, sautéing the vegetables, and preparing the ricotta mixture, one large tray was assembled. The filling included broccoli, zucchini, mushrooms, peppers, carrots, onions, and a ricotta mixture seasoned with herbs and cheese, layered with mozzarella and vodka sauce.
The original plan had been to prepare a separate gluten-free vegetable lasagna for my son-in-law, who was recently diagnosed with celiac disease. After considerable thought, another idea emerged. Since additional vegetables remained after assembling the lasagna, perhaps a better solution would be to prepare a separate gluten-free shrimp and vegetable pasta dish using gluten-free pasta, sautéed vegetables, garlic, olive oil, and shrimp.
Today's discussions also included homemade pasta, specifically the persistent problem of long noodles sticking together after cutting. Semolina flour may prove to be the missing ingredient, along with allowing the noodles to dry slightly before forming nests. The possibility of incorporating some of the 00 flour normally used for pizza dough into future pasta experiments also seems worth exploring.
The weather throughout the afternoon was nearly ideal. Temperatures reached 77 degrees with humidity around 40 percent and a gentle southwest breeze. The sky behind the house was spectacular, filled with bright white clouds against an intensely blue sky.
While relaxing on the deck later in the afternoon, my brother-in-law called to remind me that he and his wife had arranged for a Mass tomorrow morning in memory of Fran on what would have been her seventy-fifth birthday. With everything surrounding Saturday's dinner preparations, I had completely forgotten about the service. Mass will begin at 7:45 AM followed by breakfast with family.
Although my first instinct was to consider whether breakfast would interfere with preparations for Saturday, it became increasingly clear that an hour spent remembering Fran with family is exactly where I should be. The food and preparations for Saturday will still be waiting when I return home.
As the afternoon drew to a close, I found myself once again sitting at the table on the deck with a glass of iced tea, smooth jazz drifting through the air, beautiful skies overhead, cheesecakes cooling in the kitchen, and the vegetable lasagna completed.
Some days are measured by accomplishments. Others are measured by moments. Today managed to provide both.
June 25,2026
Today would have been Fran's 75th birthday. There are insufficient words to describe how much her loss has affected me, and my life since her passing.
A Full Day of Memories, Work, and Unexpected Laughter
Today began on a very emotional note as I attended the memorial Mass offered for Fran on what would have been her 75th birthday. The service was held in the very church where we were married more than fifty years ago and where her funeral Mass was celebrated last July.
Hearing her name spoken during the Mass and being surrounded by so many memories proved overwhelming at times, bringing another wave of emotion that I simply accepted with gratitude.
Following Mass, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law and I enjoyed breakfast together at the Colonial Grill. The conversation was warm and enjoyable, making for a comforting start to the day. Although I had intended to stop at the market afterward, I somehow found myself pulling into my own driveway before I realized I had driven straight home.
Not wanting to waste the remainder of the morning, I headed out to the garden where I planted the five tomato plants I had recently purchased along with four basil plants. I finished tying the remaining tomato plants to the trellis, did a fair amount of pruning and weeding, and gave the entire garden a thorough soaking.
By the time I finished, the heat of the afternoon sun had definitely taken its toll.
While relaxing on the deck with an iced drink, my umbrella attempted two of its famous “Mary Poppins” departures within fifteen minutes as the wind strengthened. After rescuing it twice, I finally admitted defeat, lowered the umbrella, and retreated indoors. Sometimes Mother Nature wins.
Exhausted from the heat, I settled into the recliner with the air conditioning set at 74 degrees and immediately fell asleep, waking about three hours later. My daughter Kim called shortly afterward. When I mentioned feeling disappointed that I had slept so long because I still wanted to make homemade pasta, she quickly reminded me that I needed to slow down and give myself a break. My response was to tell her I had to go because I needed to make pasta.
The next two hours were spent in the kitchen making approximately two and a half pounds of fresh homemade spaghetti. This time I tried a few new techniques that proved remarkably successful. I dusted the pasta generously using mostly semolina flour with a little all-purpose flour, allowed it to dry before forming nests, and handled it very gently. The result was by far the best batch I have made, with the strands remaining beautifully separated instead of sticking together as they had in previous attempts.
The warm afternoon breeze became my drying rack as I set the fresh pasta out on the deck. Looking from the landscape to the sky and then back to the pasta, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself, thinking, “Some people sit on their porch and watch the grass grow. Here I sit on mine watching the pasta dry.”
Before long, the weather changed dramatically. The bright blue skies that had dominated the day gave way to dark clouds and an approaching thunderstorm.
I hurried outside to rescue both the ripening fruit and my “sun-dried” pasta just before the rain arrived. Once safely indoors, I checked on the garden through the wireless camera I had originally installed to discourage my old groundhog nemesis. What began as a purchase to solve one problem has become one of my favorite ways to keep an eye on the garden from the comfort of the house.
After the rain began, I finally restored the kitchen to something resembling order. Just as I finished, my friend Bob from Greensburg called. His golf outing had been interrupted by the rain, and he wondered if I was home. I was delighted to have him stop by.
Bob arrived around 7:30 and stayed until nearly 9:00. We enjoyed a relaxed visit over coffee, cheesecake, and conversation. Before he left, I packed a piece of cheesecake for his wife, Barbara, along with one of the three packages of imported bacon I had picked up during an irresistible “buy one, get two free” sale at the Italian store.
Before Bob left, I suggested we walk down to the garden. The moment we entered, flashing lights, sirens, and alerts erupted from my security system announcing an “intruder in the garden.” I had completely forgotten that I had activated the alarm last summer in hopes of frightening away my resident groundhog. Needless to say, it worked perfectly—on us.
After Bob left, I once again tidied the kitchen, enjoyed a simple dinner of cottage cheese and fresh fruit, prepared the coffee pot for tomorrow morning, and finally made my way downstairs to continue working on the personalized gifts I hope to present to Fran’s cousins Kathy and Josie, her brother Paul, and our daughter Kim this Saturday.
Looking back over today, I realize how completely it reflected life itself. It began with remembrance and tears, continued with meaningful work in the garden and kitchen, included unexpected humor, welcomed the company of a good friend, and now closes with quiet preparation for the family gathering that lies just ahead.
Once again Happy Birthday Fran, I miss you more than words can possibly
describe.
June 26, 2026
The day began under heavy gray skies, and, if I'm being honest, so did my spirit.
After a restless night interrupted by leg cramps and repeated awakenings, I finally crawled out of bed feeling anything but refreshed. Before I could even enjoy my morning coffee, I discovered that I had forgotten to place the filter basket in the coffee maker the night before, leaving coffee spread across the kitchen counter instead of safely in the pot. Looking outside only reinforced the mood. Thick clouds, humidity, and rain greeted me where sunshine usually begins my day on the deck.
It certainly wasn't the way I had hoped to begin the final full day of preparations for tomorrow's family gathering in celebration of Fran's birthday.
Still, days like this have a way of teaching us that progress doesn't require perfect conditions.
After a trip to the pharmacy and the market, where I managed to forget the gluten-free pasta I intended to buy for my son-in-law, I returned home and put another pot of my Sunday sauce on the stove. While it simmered away, I began preparing the fruit topping for tomorrow's cheesecake
and continued organizing everything that still needed attention.
The fruit bowl quickly became far too small for its contents, reminding me of the famous line from Jaws: "We're going to need a bigger boat." In my case, I simply needed a bigger bowl.
By early afternoon I had simply run out of steam.
A short nap in the recliner turned out to be exactly what I needed.
When I awoke an hour later and stepped onto the deck with a tall glass of iced tea, the temperature had climbed into the upper seventies, the humidity had eased just enough to become tolerable, and for the first time all day I felt as though I could see the finish line.
After folding laundry and moving another load through the washer and dryer, I tackled one recipe that carried with it more memories than ingredients.
Green beans with roasted garlic, fresh mint, olive oil, and vinegar.
The beans were already trimmed, a pleasant surprise that eliminated one more task from an already long list. After steaming them briefly and cooling them to preserve their bright green color, I wandered into the garden to gather fresh mint.
Back in the kitchen I chiffonaded the leaves, squeezed the roasted garlic from its skins, and reached for one of my favorite kitchen tools, the old mortar and pestle. The garlic and mint became a fragrant paste before being blended with olive oil, just enough red wine vinegar, the slightest touch of balsamic, and a pinch of salt.
One taste immediately transported me back to family dinners years ago when Uncle D, cousin Kathy and Josie's dad, prepared similar style beans.
Some recipes nourish more than the body. They nourish memory.
By late afternoon the weather had changed dramatically. The same sky that greeted me with dark clouds that morning had opened into brilliant blue with towering white clouds overhead. It almost seemed symbolic of how the day itself had unfolded.
With nearly all of tomorrow's cooking complete, I turned my attention to the personalized memorial gifts I had prepared for Fran's cousins, her brother, and our daughter. Each poem had been individually personalized, printed, and carefully matted.
Seeing all five finished and lined up together brought a deep sense of satisfaction.
The frames I had considered purchasing would have cost nearly one hundred dollars, a luxury I simply couldn't justify after all the expenses surrounding tomorrow's gathering. In the end, I realized the gift wasn't the frame.
The gift was the thought.
As evening approached I wandered down to the garden for one final visit before finishing the day's chores.
To my amazement, vegetables seemed to have appeared overnight. Cucumbers hid beneath the vines, zucchini stretched to nearly a foot long, and tomatoes continued to swell while patiently waiting for sunshine to begin turning red. It was as if the garden had quietly been doing its own work while I was busy inside doing mine.
Later in the evening, Kim stopped by after getting her hair cut. I sent her home with cold cuts from the Italian market, fresh fruit, and a slice of homemade cheesecake, both to free up refrigerator space and because fathers never seem to stop sending food home with their children.
When she asked if there was anything she could do to help tomorrow, I asked if she could come a couple of hours early to help move dishes in and out of the oven and assist with setting up the buffet. Her response made me laugh.
"I'd better get going then... I'll have to get up earlier than I thought."
By day's end, what had begun as one frustration after another had quietly become something entirely different.
The sauces were was finished.
The fruit was prepared.
The green beans were marinating.
The gifts were complete.
The garden was flourishing.
Tomorrow is no longer about preparing.
Tomorrow is about opening the front door, welcoming family into the home Fran and I built together, sharing stories, breaking bread, and celebrating the remarkable woman
whose love continues to gather us around the same table.
If today's lesson taught me anything, it's that cloudy mornings don't always predict cloudy days.
Sometimes they simply make us appreciate the sunshine that eventually finds its way through.
June 27, 2026
A Birthday Worth Celebrating
Today was a day many weeks in the making.
The alarm wasn't necessary. I was up at 6:00 AM, knowing there was still much to accomplish before everyone arrived to celebrate what would have been Fran's 75th birthday.
The dining room table was set early, needing only two additional chairs from the garage to complete the seating for our guests.
Looking at the neatly arranged place settings, I couldn't help but think how different the room would look just a few hours later.
The morning became a carefully orchestrated sequence of cooking and preparation. The chicken Parmesan and vegetable lasagna found their way into the oven around midday, followed later by the eggplant Parmesan. Sauces simmered, homemade pasta waited for its final cooking, and the Italian bread that I had baked earlier in the week was sliced and warmed just before serving. Fresh fruit—nectarines, black plums, strawberries, grapes, kiwi, pineapple and more—was combined into a colorful fruit compote to accompany the cheesecake for dessert.
As always, every time I thought I had remembered everything, another small task came to mind. Fortunately, everything came together just as planned. Except for the fact that, despite all my planning and thinking I had everything under control, I forgot to add the pasta to the wedding soup. Even without the pasta every one commented that the soup, and everything else as well, was above and beyond expectations.
Apparently everyone was quite satisfied with my culinary excursions, during the past week, because a good bit of it all made its way into take home containers.
The only disappointment was the weather. The skies remained gray throughout the day with intermittent rain, temperatures in the upper 60s, and humidity that seemed to cling to everything. Although I had hoped we might spend time on the deck overlooking the backyard, Mother Nature had other plans. Looking back now, it really didn't matter. The warmth inside the house more than compensated for the dreary weather outside.
Guests began arriving around 3:00 PM, and from that moment on the house filled with conversation, laughter, and memories of Fran. We began with homemade Italian wedding soup, fresh salad, warm bread, and antipasto before moving on to chicken Parmesan, eggplant Parmesan, vegetable lasagna, homemade pasta, and plenty of sauce. Judging by the empty serving dishes and the compliments around the table, everyone thoroughly enjoyed the meal. The cheesecake topped with fresh fruit provided the perfect ending.
Dinner itself lasted nearly two hours, but no one seemed anxious to leave the table. Conversation continued long after the last plates had been cleared. Stories were shared, memories revisited, and the afternoon gradually turned into early evening. Before I knew it, more than four hours had passed. My guests didn't leave until well after 7:00 PM.
That, perhaps, was the greatest compliment of all.
After everyone departed, exhaustion finally caught up with me. I settled into the recliner intending only to rest for a few moments and instead slept for nearly three hours. Waking close to 11:00 PM, I wandered back into the kitchen where I finished washing the remaining pots, pans, and serving dishes that hadn't fit into the dishwasher earlier. Most everything has now been cleaned and put away, although tomorrow will still require returning the house to its normal order.
As I finally prepare for bed shortly after midnight, I find myself reflecting on what truly mattered today. The weather never cooperated, and there were moments throughout the morning when I wondered if I had forgotten something important. In the end, none of that mattered.
What mattered was that family gathered around our table to celebrate Fran's life and what would have been her seventy-fifth birthday. The house was once again filled with the sounds of conversation, laughter, good food, and people who loved her.
I can't imagine a more fitting tribute.
Happy 75th Birthday, Fran. You were with us all day, as you are with me every day.
In closing, a photo from Fran's last birthday with us.
I would have given anything and everything, to have had her back with us today...
June 28, 2026
From Fog to Blue Skies
This morning began much as I expected after yesterday's celebration, physically exhausted and emotionally drained. I awoke around 5:00 AM feeling anything but refreshed. Looking through the patio doors, I could barely see the deck beyond the heavy condensation on the glass. Overnight rain had left puddles everywhere, and the morning greeted me with a wall of gray skies, 67-degree temperatures, and humidity hovering around 95 percent. It certainly wasn't the kind of morning that would entice me outdoors.
Instead, I accepted that today would be devoted to recovering from the whirlwind of the past week and gradually restoring the house to its normal order.
As the morning unfolded, however, my emotions took an unexpected turn.
Yesterday, before leaving, Fran's cousins Kathy and Josie presented me with a gift bag containing a beautiful cardinal wind chime, an Angel of Remembrance pin,
and a birthday card addressed to Fran.
I hadn't opened the card until this morning. Inside was one of the most thoughtful gifts imaginable, a remembrance that Fran would be included in daily Mass and prayers for an entire year at Saint Lawrence Seminary. Their handwritten message spoke directly to Fran, expressing their belief that her birthday was now being celebrated with Jesus, surrounded by blessings. Their words were simple, heartfelt, and unmistakably sincere. They reminded me once again what extraordinarily kind and generous people Fran's family has always been. From the day I entered their lives more than fifty years ago, they welcomed me as one of their own, and that feeling has never diminished.
As I stood reading the inscription on the cardinal wind chime,"When a cardinal appears, an angel is near"a real cardinal landed on the deck railing only moments later, lingering just long enough for me to notice before quietly flying away. Whether coincidence or simply perfect timing, it was one of those small moments that reached far deeper than words can adequately describe.
Later in the morning, Kathy texted once again thanking me for yesterday's hospitality. During our conversation, I mentioned that I wished someone had photographed the table before everyone began eating. She reminded me it had actually been Josie who had taken the photograph and asked if I'd like a copy. A short while later she sent it along, and I was delighted to finally have a photograph of the antipasto salad displayed exactly as everyone first saw it.
Looking at it now, I have to admit I was rather proud of how it turned out. Between coordinating soup, pasta, chicken Parmesan, eggplant Parmesan, lasagna, bread, vegetables, and desserts, I had become so focused on serving everyone that photography, something I normally never neglect, took a back seat. Thankfully, Josie preserved one of the moments I failed to capture.
By late morning the weather had undergone a complete transformation. The dense gray overcast gradually surrendered to patches of brilliant blue sky, while a pleasant breeze made the 76-degree afternoon surprisingly comfortable despite humidity that remained around eighty percent. It was finally inviting enough to enjoy some time on the deck.
Earlier in the day I had texted Fran's friend Nancy, letting her know I had an abundance of leftovers and inviting her to stop by if she'd like some. Around 11:30, after working around the house for a while, I settled into the recliner with a book and promptly fell asleep. I suddenly awoke to someone calling my name. For one startling moment I could have sworn it was Fran, which immediately caught me off guard before I realized it was Nancy. She had knocked, rung the doorbell, searched the garden thinking I might be outside, and finally let herself in through the unlocked front door I'd intentionally left open in case she stopped by.
I sent her home with what amounted to an Italian feast, eggplant Parmesan, chicken Parmesan, homemade pasta with marinara, vegetable lasagna, antipasto salad, garlic and mint green beans, homemade bread, several slices of cheesecake, and fruit topping. When she first saw the large box of containers, she assumed that represented everything I had left. When I explained it was only about one-third of the leftovers and that I genuinely wanted her to have it, she could hardly believe it. Knowing that so much wonderful food would never be consumed before spoiling, I was genuinely happy to see it going to someone who would enjoy it.
After Nancy left, I returned to the recliner with smooth jazz softly playing in the background and eventually warmed up a plate of homemade pasta and eggplant Parmesan for my own lunch. Ironically, after preparing that meal for everyone else yesterday, today was the first opportunity I really had to sit quietly and enjoy it myself.
The afternoon settled into a comfortable rhythm. I wandered through the garden, weeding all of the raised beds before wisely deciding to call it a day once the heat and humidity became oppressive.
Returning to the house drenched with perspiration, I quickly changed clothes, ate another light lunch of leftovers, and resumed reading Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time. Hawking certainly stretches the limits of my understanding. Although written for the average reader, I often found myself rereading paragraphs simply to grasp what he was trying to explain.
Apparently, the book was more relaxing, more than likely totally beyond my scope of understanding, than I anticipated. Somewhere around three o'clock I drifted off once again in the recliner. When I finally awoke, I was convinced it must be around five in the evening. Walking into the kitchen, I was astonished to discover it was after seven. I had slept for nearly four hours without realizing it. Looking back over the past week of preparations, yesterday's celebration, and today's slower pace, perhaps my body simply decided it was finally time to collect the sleep it had been missing.
Throughout the day I also found time to enjoy the wildlife that so often shares this little corner of the world with me. Robins busily searched for worms beneath the pine tree,
a colorful grackle strutted confidently across the lawn,
squirrels chattered endlessly around the oak tree,
and the garden itself appeared to be thriving after recent rains.
The photographs I captured reflected what the day itself seemed to be saying: the morning had begun wrapped in fog and sadness, yet by afternoon brilliant blue skies had emerged between the clouds.
In many ways, the weather mirrored my own journey today.
.
The grief remained, just as it always does, but it gradually made room once again for gratitude, peaceful moments on the deck, conversations with friends, simple pleasures in the garden, and the comforting realization that life, like the sky above me, has a remarkable way of finding patches of blue even after the darkest morning clouds.
June 29, 2026
A Day of Waiting, Kindness, and Perspective
The day began quietly beneath a heavy blanket of moisture left behind by overnight rain. Before long, Mr. Squeegee was once again called into service, clearing the deck and restoring my favorite morning sanctuary.
Although the wood quickly dried, the humid air lingered, convincing me to spend much of the early morning indoors instead of at my usual place on the deck.
From the dining room table, I discovered that a change of perspective can reveal beauty just as easily as a change in the weather. Fran's memorial plants, thriving nearly a year after her funeral, caught my attention, while the soft morning light slowly worked its way through the cloud cover.
Rather than waste time waiting for perfect conditions, I enjoyed a simple breakfast of Greek yogurt topped with the fruit compote left over from Sunday's family dinner and a generous handful of granola.
Curious about the garden but unwilling to soak my shoes in the dew, I let technology do the walking for me. A quick check of the garden camera showed healthy tomatoes, climbing beans, and rain-soaked pathways with no apparent storm damage—a reassuring sight after so much recent work.
By mid-morning, the weather was steadily improving. The sun finally broke through the clouds, but the emotional atmosphere changed abruptly when my niece called with heartbreaking news. Linda's condition had taken a dramatic turn for the worse, and the doctors believed she had very little time remaining. Hearing the fear and grief in my niece's voice immediately transported me back to those final days with Fran. The parallels were impossible to ignore. Both sisters fought the same relentless disease with incredible courage, and once again I found myself wondering how best to support a family facing the painful reality of saying goodbye.
As difficult as that news was, the remainder of the day became a reminder that kindness often arrives in ordinary ways.
My neighbor Bob stopped by to apologize for not cutting my grass because his mower had broken down. I offered him the mower sitting in my shed, encouraging him to keep it as long as he needed. He cut his own grass before returning to mow mine as well.
Before he left, I packed up a generous assortment of leftovers from Saturday's birthday celebration and sent him home with enough food to enjoy for several meals.
Later in the afternoon, I invited my neighbor Neal over for dinner. We shared eggplant Parmesan, homemade pasta with marinara sauce, fresh salad, and New York-style cheesecake topped with homemade fruit compote. Neal thoroughly enjoyed the meal, happily helping himself to a second plate before making room for dessert.
When the evening ended, I sent him home with chicken Parmesan, eggplant Parmesan, vegetable lasagna, fresh cucumbers, garden lettuce, and a zucchini, more reminders that good food is best when shared.
After Neal left, the phone rang several more times. My niece Stacey provided another update on Linda, followed by calls from my daughter and my longtime friend Bob in Greensburg. It seemed that, without planning it, the people who care about one another were quietly checking in throughout the evening.
With the dishes washed and the kitchen once again in order, I settled into the family room to write the day's blog.
Looking back, June 29 became a day defined by contrasts. It began with lingering moisture and gradually clearing skies. It carried the heartbreak of knowing another beloved family member is nearing life's end while simultaneously offering repeated reminders of friendship, generosity, and community. Sometimes we cannot change the difficult chapters unfolding around us, but we can still lend a lawn mower, share a meal, offer a listening ear, and send someone home with food from the garden.
Those simple acts don't erase sorrow, but they do remind us that even on the heaviest days, kindness continues to flourish.
June 30, 2026
Daily Reflection Summary
A day that began in quiet anticipation, unfolded through purposeful work, and concluded with peaceful contentment and thoughtful reflection.
The final day of June began before sunrise with a sense of optimism. At 5:42 AM, the eastern sky hinted at the possibility of a beautiful sunrise as scattered clouds reflected the first light of day. The temperature stood at a comfortable 69° with 89% humidity, promising another hot summer day with a forecast high near 90°.
After drying the remaining dew from the deck table, I settled into my familiar seat with a cup of coffee, grateful for another opportunity to greet the morning.
The early hours were remarkably peaceful. Aside from the brief interruption of a construction truck passing near the school behind my home, silence prevailed. Even the birds had yet to begin their morning chorus. The stillness, warm air, and slowly changing sky created a comforting atmosphere that invited quiet reflection. As always, my thoughts drifted toward Fran. The deck remains my "happy place," not because it allows me to forget her, but because it is filled with memories of the countless mornings and evenings we spent together talking, laughing, and simply enjoying one another's company. Alongside those treasured memories are the more difficult ones of watching her illness gradually rob her of the simple pleasure of sitting outside without pain. Those memories still bring tears, yet I continue returning to this place because, although she is no longer physically beside me, I feel her presence here every day.
By 6:30 AM, the sunrise had quietly reached its conclusion. The brilliant oranges and pinks faded as the sun climbed above the horizon, filtering through the clouds rather than illuminating them from below.
It was a gentle reminder that dawn's beauty is fleeting and best appreciated while it lasts. With the heat of the day quickly approaching, I decided the wisest course of action was to take advantage of the cool morning hours by thoroughly watering the vegetable garden, followed by all of the flowers surrounding the house and the remaining plants in the small greenhouse on the south side.
As I completed the watering, I also took advantage of the calm air to experiment with a new method of weed control, spraying the driveway with a 30% vinegar solution that others had recommended. Whether it proves effective remains to be seen, but one thing became immediately apparent, it certainly has a powerful aroma.
Standing in the garden afterward, I couldn't help but reflect on how quickly the month had passed. Only a few short months ago, I questioned whether I even had the motivation or strength to plant a garden this year. Looking over the thriving raised beds now filled with tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, squash, lettuce, and flowers, I realized just how much had been accomplished. The help provided by my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson transformed what once seemed an overwhelming task into one of the greatest sources of satisfaction this summer. The garden has become far more than a source of fresh vegetables; it stands as a quiet reminder that even after life's most difficult seasons, growth remains possible.
Returning indoors around 7:40 AM, I intended only to sit in the recliner for a few moments after completing the morning's chores. Instead, exhaustion quietly took over. I fell asleep almost instantly and awoke some time later momentarily confused, unsure of the time or even where I was. As my thoughts cleared, I looked toward the dining room and found the morning sun filling the house with warm light, transforming the interior as completely as it had transformed the landscape outside.
After finally convincing myself to leave the comfort of the recliner, I prepared what I jokingly referred to as a "breakfast of champions,"
plain Greek yogurt topped with chia seeds, granola, and the remaining fresh fruit from Saturday's birthday celebration. Carrying both breakfast and coffee back to the deck, I enjoyed another peaceful hour beneath the umbrella while savoring the cool morning breeze before the day's heat became oppressive.
Just as I had anticipated, a familiar visitor soon appeared. Hearing a wild turkey calling from behind the garden, I waited patiently, camera in hand.
Before long, two magnificent turkeys casually emerged behind the shed, crossed the road into the neighbor's yard, and continued on their way with all the confidence and composure only wild turkeys seem to possess. Their predictable morning routine has become one of the many small pleasures that make each day on the deck unique.
Later in the morning, I returned to the garden intending to plant additional lettuce, spinach, and pole beans while pruning the cucumber and tomato plants. Reality, however, quickly intervened. After spending about an hour pruning, the heat and humidity became simply too much. With the temperature already reaching 82° before noon, I wisely abandoned plans to sow more seed, reminding myself that gardening often means working with nature rather than against it. Some tasks are simply better left for another day.
By early afternoon, the weather had taken on an almost tropical feel. The temperature reached 89°, accompanied by a southwest breeze of nearly ten miles per hour that kept the heat surprisingly bearable despite the humidity. Looking out over the lush garden beneath a brilliant blue sky filled with white summer clouds, I found myself almost feeling as though I had been transported to another climate altogether.
Later in the day, I made a brief trip to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription, followed by a quick stop at the dollar store, proof that I'll probably never outgrow my appreciation for finding a good bargain. While driving home, I called my daughter and asked her to see if my grandson might like to join me later that evening for frozen custard. He happened to be asleep, and although I suspected the outing probably wouldn't happen, it was enough simply to know the invitation had been offered.
Returning to the deck around 6:00 PM, I found it once again completely shaded as the sun moved to the western side of the house. Although the temperature had climbed to 91°, the humidity had dropped to a much more comfortable 51%, and a steady southwest breeze made sitting outdoors surprisingly enjoyable. With the construction work completed for the day and the evening settling into peaceful silence, I found myself perfectly content simply sitting where I was, watching the garden, listening to the quiet, and appreciating another day well spent.
The day's reflections also turned toward an upcoming visit from Fran's cousin Frank, who recently asked if he might stay with me for a couple of weeks in mid-July. While I genuinely enjoy his company and understand the loneliness he has experienced following the loss of his wife, I also found myself wrestling with mixed emotions. Previous visits have highlighted our very different approaches to politics, housekeeping and daily routines. As someone who finds comfort in order, cleanliness, and routine, I sometimes struggle when guests leave clothes scattered about, and bathrooms untidy.
As I prepare for his upcoming visit, I hope to continue extending hospitality while also preserving the routines and peaceful environment that have become so important in helping me rebuild my own life.
Looking back over this final day of June, I realize it was not marked by extraordinary events but rather by the quiet richness of ordinary moments: a beautiful sunrise, a thriving garden, healthy food, the unexpected appearance of wild turkeys, meaningful conversations, cherished memories of Fran, and the peaceful solitude of a shaded deck on a warm summer evening.
In many ways, it served as a fitting conclusion to a month filled with growth, gratitude, remembrance, and the continuing realization that;
even in the presence of loss, life still offers abundant reasons to greet each new morning with hope.
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