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On Grief and Grieving January 2026
- kresicki
- Jan 1
- 105 min read
Updated: Jan 31
January 1, 2026
I actually can’t believe I’m really up and moving around. I first woke up around 4 AM which was insane because I didn’t go to bed until 1:30 AM. Obviously not sufficient sleep for a normal person, so I’m guessing I’m not so normal. I actually thought twice about staying up but after getting out of bed at 4 AM I really didn’t feel bad at all, I jumped into the shower and was out into the kitchen by 4:30 AM pouring my 1st cup of coffee for the day, and apparently the new year. I’m not tired at all. I’m actually feeling somewhat refreshed and most likely will feel a lot more so once I crack open this patio door because the outside air temperature is currently at 18° with a feel like of 14°.
It’s still quite dark outside, so I really can’t get a good handle on how much snowfall we had last night but I can see enough to know that we had some It’s looking like there’s about 4+ inches on the table top, but I really can’t tell quite yet. I’ll get a better handle on that once things start to lighten up outside.
As far as I could tell, the roads are snow covered, but I definitely recall hearing plows going through last night, so I’m not sure exactly how much snow is accumulated on the roadways. Once things start to lighten up outside and I can get a better feel for road conditions, I will decide on whether or not I’ll be going to my friend Bob’s house for brunch.
Last night was a bit of a challenge since it was the first New Year’s eve that I’ve spent without Fran. Needless to say, I was a bit antsy all night long, and being alone was never anything that I anticipated in 2026. When I really start thinking about this whole grieving process, I almost feel guilty because I often times find myself thinking, "is this what the rest of my life is going to be, living it alone by myself, in this insanely quiet, lonely house."
The loneliness is bittersweet, because there were so many times, I just wanted to have a decent night's sleep, undisturbed, not having to be on watch, and now I would give anything to take on those responsibilities again, if it meant having Fran back here with me.
Waking up after a hard night (especially a first holiday without Fran) has apparently flipped my body into a weird, alert mode. Sometimes grief runs on adrenaline. Perhaps I'm up because my mind and heart have been “on watch,” even though my body didn’t get the rest it requires.
I'm told that what I said about feeling guilty for thinking, “Is this the rest of my life?,” that’s a very common grief-thought. It isn’t a betrayal of Fran. It’s my brain trying to map the future after the person who made “future” feel like a shared thing is no longer physically here.
A couple things I need to gently reflect back to :
I'm not choosing loneliness. It’s landing on me.
Missing the old responsibilities (being “on watch,” interrupted sleep, all of it) doesn’t mean I liked the hardship. It means I loved the life that included her, even the difficult parts
The quiet can be brutal because it’s not neutral quiet, it’s “absence quiet.” That hits hardest on threshold moments like New Year’s.
The Best Damn Coffee
Just about every day I think about how I used to prepare Fran's coffee for her. As soon as I heard her moving about in the bedroom poured her a cup and then added the cream and sugar, so that it would be on the table and ready for her to drink, as soon as she sat down. For whatever reason that thought just won't leave me this morning.
Fran and I have been coffee people for as long as I can remember, right back to our college days. She liked cream and sugar in hers. I drink mine black, and it wasn’t some noble health decision. It was economics. When I arrived at college at 17, I didn’t even like coffee. I started drinking it because I didn’t have enough money for milk or orange juice in the mornings.
First I drank coffee with plenty of milk and sugar. Then I realized I couldn’t afford milk. Then I realized I couldn’t even afford sugar. So I drank it black, and I’ve been drinking it that way ever since.
When we first got married, I made our coffee with a percolator. It worked. We weren’t connoisseurs then, we just knew we loved coffee and we knew some brands were better than others. As time passed and we could afford something a little better than the cheapest can on the shelf, we started upgrading. The real turning point came years later when my daughter gave us a grind-and-brew coffee maker, one she and her husband weren’t using because they weren’t coffee drinkers at the time. That machine changed everything. Fresh-ground beans don’t just taste different, they feel different. The smell alone can change the whole mood of a morning.
Somewhere along the line I picked up a little trick: a tiny dash of salt added to the grounds before brewing. Not enough to taste “salty,” just enough to take the edge off and smooth things out. We eventually settled into an Italian espresso blend, and with that little dash of salt, it goes down like silk.
For the last four or five years, our mornings had a rhythm. The moment I heard Fran stirring in the bedroom, I’d pour her coffee. More times than I can count she’d say, “Tony, you make the best damn coffee.” After meds and breathing treatments, I’d make her breakfast, though “breakfast” often meant toast. She wasn’t big on morning meals, and that’s one of the things that hits me hard now: I’ve finally found a bread recipe that’s truly fantastic and I’ve gotten good at it… and there’s no doubt in my mind she would have loved this stuff, but sadly she is no longer here to enjoy it with me.
Even now, on a morning like this, I still set up the coffee the night before, beans loaded, water measured, so when I get up, I just press the start button. The beans grind while I’m moving around, and by the time I reach the kitchen, the coffee is ready. It’s a small ritual that still makes the morning feel like it has purpose… even in the quiet.
Some habits don’t disappear when the person you love is gone , they just become a way of carrying them forward.
Morning Brew & Reflections
7:27 AM • 15° (feels like 6°) • High: 31°Snowfall: ~6–7" on the back deck
What’s in the cup
Coffee in hand. Oven warmth in the kitchen, and that quiet, familiar hope that the sky might actually show me something worth remembering.
What I’m noticing
As I pulled a pizza out of the oven this morning, one I’m taking to Bob and his wife, I caught it out of the corner of my eye, the outdoors had brightened up quite a bit.
The sky is changing. I may even get to see the sun.
A respectable sunrise always seems to reset something inside me. Even if the rest of the day turns gloomy, I can look back on that one moment and let it carry me.
What’s happening around the house
We got more snow overnight than I realized. The table on the back deck is holding about six to seven inches, and the deck itself had a heavy layer too. I had to clear some of it just to open the door, using what was readily available: a very large spatula.
The plows have already been through, and the road is plowed and salted, so at least right outside my door things look relatively clear. I’m not sure I’m ready to venture out just yet… but I’m hoping I will.
What I’m bringing with me
If I do head out, it’ll be with a few homemade comforts for good company:
a fresh loaf of bread
a cranberry star bread
and a white pizza for later today
Photos
Closing reflection
New Year’s morning feels like a threshold, cold, quiet, and honest. Today I’m grateful for simple things: a working oven, cleared roads, a reason to leave the house, and a sky that’s giving me even a chance at sunrise.
This morning the world outside was hushed under snow, the air sharp enough to sting, and the day began the way winter often does, quiet and uncertain. Then the sun arrived like a gentle answer. It slipped through the glass and woke the butterfly to life, as if heaven had pressed its thumbprint against my window. “Always My Sunshine.” A simple phrase… and yet, this morning it felt like a message: light still comes, love still reaches, and grace still finds the places we thought were too cold to hold it.
It’s currently 4:59 PM going on 5:00 PM New Year’s Day and it’s been quite eventful. Went to my friend Bob’s house at around 10:00 AM this morning for breakfast/brunch, whatever, and it was quite the lovely experience. We chatted for a good while prior to eating. I sat on a barstool at their kitchen counter while he and his wife prepared the food, and we had quite an enjoyable conversation. That conversation continued throughout breakfast and extended well beyond, since I didn’t leave until approximately 1 PM.
Made my way home and stopped at the market on the way to pick up a few items. Got home, unpacked them, and then sat in the recliner in my living room. Since I had gotten up so early, 4 PM to be specific, I knew that as soon as I sat down, it was good night time. Indeed that’s what happened. Just woke up about a half an hour ago and would probably still be sleeping if my phone hadn’t rang. As it turns out, it was my daughter just checking on me. We chatted for a while, and then said our goodbyes. Think I’ll be preparing some more bread this evening since I gave away one to Bob along with a star bread, some soup, and a white pizza. Now there’s only one loaf left, which I will be eating part of for dinner, with some soup I made two days ago.
January 2, 2026
It’s 8:13 AM on Friday, and I’m in the kitchen, awake for the second time, but finally up for good.
I stirred at 4:00 AM, but I knew I wasn’t going to repeat yesterday’s early start. After coming home from Bob’s, I sat down and went out like a light, my body making it clear I’m still paying back a sleep debt.
Outside it’s around 20°, and the sky is the color of old steel, low clouds, gray and heavy. The forecasters say the sun may break through later, and I’m quietly rooting for that. A little sunshine can tilt the whole day in a better direction.
In the refrigerator, bread dough is doing what it does best, working patiently while everything else catches up. I’ll pull it out soon and bake again today. The loaves keep improving, and the requests for “more” keep coming, which still makes me smile.
No real plan beyond that—just bread, hope, and the possibility of sunlight. If nothing else, I’d like the day to deliver that.
While patiently awaiting the bread dough to make its final rise I decided to use up some cream cheese filling and cranberry chutney, I had in the fridge, to make a puff pastry. The process was relatively simple with frozen puff pastry on hand, and the results far surpassed my expectations both in taste and appearance.
It’s 8:29 PM, and today had that steady kind of motion that keeps the house feeling alive.
Once the puff pastry was finished this morning, I baked two loaves of bread, and they came out beautifully—good enough that they didn’t last long.
At 2:00 PM, my financial advisor called and said he was stopping by. We talked briefly, and I sent him on his way with a box full of comforts: fresh bread, cranberry-and-cheese puff pastry, cookies, nut roll, and that cranberry chutney I’ve been spreading on just about everything lately, because it’s unbelievably good.
Later, at around 4:30 PM, Neal texted to see if I was home, and to ask about the nut roll and bread I’d meant to give him before Christmas. The nut roll was already history, but I told him he could still stop by because I’d baked bread today, just let me know when, so I could be here.
He showed up around 7:30 PM. We visited for a bit. I gave him a taste of the cranberry puff pastry, offered a nut roll (he passed), and he happily took a fresh loaf of bread.
By the time the evening settled, both loaves were gone, so I mixed up more dough and put it in the refrigerator to cold-ferment for tomorrow.
So much for “taking it easy.” Tonight I’m aiming for a quiet landing, recliner, TV, and hopefully staying awake long enough to enjoy it. If not, I’ll do what I sometimes do: drift off, wake up at an unreasonable hour, and then finally put myself to bed.
January 3, 2026
7:02 AM, First cup of coffee in hand, I took a glance out the patio door to see the world waking up. Just a hint of light in the southeast, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I had a feeling today might deliver a respectable sunrise.
Last night got away from me. I fell asleep in my recliner around 11:00, woke up at 12:30, and for a moment I was ready to start beignet dough at 1:00 AM. I didn’t, but the idea stuck. I set myself up anyway, butter out to soften overnight, and a batch of Bavarian cream tucked into the refrigerator to chill.
So today’s plan starts early, mix the beignet dough first thing so it has time to rise, then deep-fry later. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple loaves cold-fermenting in the refrigerator that need to be finished today, too.
If everything comes together, I’m thinking I’ll take some of each over to my daughter’s, if it’s still early enough. Maybe we’ll turn it into a small continental breakfast.
I opened the patio door to grab a quick photo and got an instant wake-up call, a blast of cold air poured in while I stood there in jeans and a T-shirt. 16° outside, feels like 11°. That brief moment was… memorable.
8:08 AM Still no sign of the sun, but it feels like some unseen force is trying to pry the clouds apart. So far, the success rate has been negligible.
I guess my weather-forecasting skills aren’t exactly award-winning, but there’s still hope. A few small hints suggest things could improve, if they do, it’s going to take time.
8:31 AM Then it happened, the sun finally managed to make its way through the cloud cover. Just a bright pocket of gold, but enough to change everything. My day suddenly felt quite a bit better.
Now I’m hoping it keeps moving in that direction.
I ended up spending far more time on beignets than I ever expected today.
I followed the recipe to the letter, but the dough felt way too loose. Even after the first rise it hadn’t tightened much, so I worked in a small amount of additional flour, just enough to make it manageable. After another hour and a half or so, it still felt sloppy, and I hit that familiar crossroads: Do I keep trusting the process, or do I intervene?
I chose a middle road. I chilled the dough in the refrigerator for a couple of hours to firm it up. It helped, but not quite enough, so I added a couple tablespoons more flour, kneaded it briefly, formed it into a ball, and gave it another cold rise for an hour to an hour and a half.
Somewhere in between all that, while baking off two loaves of bread, I finally got the dough to the point where it was workable, though just barely. I didn’t pull the first loaf of bread from the oven until nearly 4:00 PM, because of all the fussing with the beignet dough. The second loaf came out shortly after, and at least that part of the day felt back under control.
Around 5:00 PM I rolled the beignet dough into sheets, cut it into 3” x 3” squares, set them on parchment, and chilled them again. By about 7:00 PM I fried the first six, and they came out wonderfully.
I filled them first with Bavarian cream (with a little Baileys Irish Cream mixed in), then gave them a second injection of my cranberry-orange filling for a sweet-and-savory kick. Once they cooled, they got a light dusting of powdered sugar.
Then came the best part, I called my grandson to see if he was home, because I remembered how much he liked beignets the last time I made them. He told me he was on his way to Seven Springs to meet a friend to go skiing, but said he would stop anyway. He even joked that if he’d been halfway there, he would’ve turned around to come back for some.
He stopped in for a bit, sampled two, and took three to go. That left one beignet behind, which I obviously had to sample for “quality control.”
Earlier I’d invited my daughter and her husband to stop by if they wanted some. They arrived around 7:30–8:00, each had a beignet, and we also shared a slice of the cranberry-orange and cream cheese puff pastry I’d made last night. They stayed for a nice visit and left around 9:00.
After a bit of cleanup, I was ready to call it a day. I only wish Fran were here to have enjoyed the fruits of the days labor, and the company and love it brought with it.
As I continue to wade through this sea of daily insanity, I often wonder what is it that keeps me going. The only answer that I can come up with is that Fran would have wanted me to do whatever it is I need to do, to keep moving forward, to keep her memory, for as long as I am able, in the hearts and minds of our children and grandchildren and, all who knew and loved her.
A PROMISE FOR THE DAYS AHEAD
I loved deeply, and I was loved deeply.
That love did not end, it changed form.
I will remember Fran with gratitude,
not only pain, her kindness, her patience,
her caring heart, the way she loved our family,
and treated others with grace.
I will miss her honestly.
I will grieve at my own pace.
I will not shame myself for the hard days.
When my mind gets crowded,
I will return to what grounds me,
to the patio doors, to the portal
between the locust trees,
and to the smile I still see
there looking down on me.
Today, I will do the next right thing,
one small task,
one steady breath,
one kind choice at a time.
I will let simple comforts count,
warm coffee, honest reflection,
fresh bread, a soft song,
a butterfly at the window,
a memory that makes me smile.
I will accept help.
I will stay connected.
I will keep showing up.
God willing, I still have years ahead,
and I will live them in a way
that honors the love we shared.
Grief may walk beside me,
but it will not be the only thing
in this house.
I will carry her love into my future
and I will learn to live again.
January 4, 2026
It’s 7:36 AM on Sunday, January 4. Another extremely cloudy gray dreary, overcast day ahead, at least that’s what the weather forecasters are calling for. Current temperature is at 22° with a high today only being 29°, and with all the clouds, not something I’m looking forward to.
I'm pretty much caught up on all the things I need to do, at least I think so. I’m not exactly sure what the day will bring. What I know now, what keeps tugging at me, are all the thoughts that run through my head, not just on a daily basis, but minute by minute.
Keeping active, busy, doing things, anything, definitely helps me maintain my sanity, keeps my mind off of things I really don’t want to think about, but they’re always there. Always knocking at the door, looking for a way in.
I often find myself thinking about how unhappy my parents were when I had to move them into an assisted living facility. They wanted absolutely no part of it, and fought me constantly, at times it got pretty ugly. At this point in my life, I can now understand at least some of what they were going through since they both lived to be well into their 90's. I can only surmise that there will be plenty of references ahead for me as well. Even prior to my moving my parents to assisted living, they were always complaining, perhaps complaining isn’t the word, but they always let me know that it would be nice if I could come and visit them on occasion, which I did, but apparently in their mind not often enough. Now I feel guilt because back then I would tell Fran and myself, we have lives to live too. How can they expect us to live our lives around theirs?
After they both passed, and Fran started quickly going downhill, I’m plagued with thoughts of how I should’ve spent more time with her, how I should’ve savored every moment we had together, how we both knew things weren’t going to end well, and now I know I should’ve treasured the time we had more than I did.
Now that my parents and Fran are gone, sometimes I feel like I’m paying penance for sins I’ve committed in the past, but the fact of the matter is, I just didn’t know how they’re passing was going to affect me.
Much like my parents I now often times wish my family would spend more time with me. and I know that selfish, that they have their own lives to live, but the loneliness sometimes is absolutely horrendous, There’s no doubt in my mind that my family spends more time with me, checks in on me far more often then what is normal for others? I know they worry about me, and no doubt probably do even more than most do, which is more than I should ask for.
Once again, the loneliness can be almost debilitating. Sitting here in my recliner, with a bit of smooth jazz in the background, sipping a cup of coffee, the silence in this house can sometimes be, as is now, deafening. All too often, I find myself turning on the TV, turning on the radio, turning on my computer, my tablet, putting music or news on and sometimes all the above, just to make some noise, just to try and soften the impact of being here alone.
When I think about the time I have left, I can’t help but wonder. Is this feeling of loneliness going to go away or is it going to get worse, and if it’s the latter how the hell am I gonna deal with it? Since it will most likely be the latter, I guess I’m just going to have to find a way, and hope that the heartache of losing Fran will somehow find a way to amend itself.
Even though the house is extremely quiet this morning, my mind is working to make sense of all the love, all the regret, all the “if only I’d…” that comes with losing Fran (and with remembering my parents, too).
About the guilt and the “paying penance” feeling
Apparently, one of griefs' favorite tricks is to drag today’s pain backward in time and try to rewrite my choices as sins.
But I wasn't withholding love from my parents, I was trying to balance life the way most adult children do, with limited time and imperfect information.
With Fran… I didn’t “fail” her. I lived alongside an unthinkable decline, day after day, doing the best I could, inside a reality neither of us wanted. I'm told the reason guilt shows up so fiercely isn’t because I was cruel. It’s because I loved deeply, and my love is looking for somewhere to go now.
Will the loneliness go away… or get worse?
I have also been told that with people who are grieving (in the patterns I've described), it usually doesn’t just “go away.” It changes shape.
Some days it eases because I'm connected, engaged, moving.
Some days it spikes because the house is quiet and my mind goes hunting.
Over time, I find it becomes less constant, and more wave-like, especially when I build a few reliable “anchors” into the week.
A way to handle today
Not a big makeover. Just something that helps me through the next 6–10 hours.
Keep my hands busy Pick an “absorb me” project:
bake something small with a clear finish line (a quick loaf, even a single batch of dough to freeze)
organize one photo folder (only one)
prep a soup or sauce I can portion and give away later
Give the thoughts somewhere safe to land
Write a short note titled: “What I wish you knew” (to Fran, or to my parents). Don’t polish it. Just spill it.
Or: “Three moments I did show up.” (Because I did.)
And one tiny connection
Send one text that doesn’t require a whole plan:
“Morning, thinking of you. If you’re free later, I’d love a quick call.”
Or: “I’ve got coffee on and jazz going, if you feel like a short visit today, you’d be doing me a favor.”
A tiny trick that might help on days like this
Before I sit back down, stand up, stretch, and take a 3–5 minute walk through the house (even just stairs once, or a lap from room to room). It might flip the switch from “stuck” to “moving” without requiring motivation.
January 5, 2026
It’s 6:26 AM on Monday, January 5, 25,° outside quite cool, or should I say cold, with a high predicted today of 44°. I can handle the 44° part! Calling for clouds all day, so there’s more than likely no chance of any kind of sunrise ahead. One of those, "I really don’t have anything to look forward regarding the start of my day kind of days".
Didn’t you go to bed last night until about 1 AM, only because after updating my blog, I made the mistake of doing a search on Google related to grief and grieving. I was quite moved by a lot of the material I came across, so moved in fact, at times that I sat there with tears flowing from my eyes. There were quite a few poems and remembrances that really struck home, and came close to putting me over the edge several times, but like a fool I kept on reading.
I think it’s strange how many of the things and thoughts that are anchored in our brains, that brought us so much pleasure, so much joy, once gone, can bring us so much pain.
Yep... That’s one of the cruel little paradoxes of love. The very same “anchors” that used to light me up, songs, routines, a smell in the kitchen, a phrase Fran used, even the idea of a sunrise, don’t disappear now that she’s gone. They stay wired into me, and when Fran became suddenly unreachable, my brain didn't interpret it as “a memory.” It interpreted it as absence. So the joy and the pain are now sharing the same doorway.
And that late-night grief reading? It's not foolish. It’s human. When I'm tired (1 AM tired) my defenses are down, and the words slip past the armor. Some poems don’t just describe grief… they touch it.
If today becomes one of those “clouds all day, no sunrise to lean on” mornings, perhaps there are a few ways I can steer it, pick what fits, leave what doesn’t:
Give myself a boundary with grief content: “Not before breakfast,” or “Only 15 minutes, then I stop.” Grief reading is powerful, sometimes too powerful, especially when I'm raw.
Swap the “sunrise ritual” for a “first light ritual”: even if the sky is gray, I can still mark the day beginning, coffee, a candle, one song, one photo, one paragraph in the blog. Same gesture, different weather.
Let the pain have a container: instead of letting it spill all over the day, I could write Fran a short note, just 5 to 10 lines, about what hit me last night. Not an essay. Just a clean release.
This morning didn’t arrive all at once—it unfolded.
A faint glow at the edge of the world…
then warmth… then color spreading like reassurance across the clouds. The trees stood in silhouette, winter-dark and honest, while the sky did all the talking.
And there in the window: “Always my Sunshine.” A simple suncatcher, a simple sunrise, yet together they felt like a message. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.
Keep going. I’m here.
I stood there watching it change by the minute, soft at first, then brighter, until it had me completely hooked. Seeing that little sun-catcher that says “Always My Sunshine” hanging there in the same frame as the sunrise… well, that felt like more than coincidence.
No complaints today. This is a good way to begin.
Not a lot got accomplished today… but I did manage to keep busy.
I spent a good part of the afternoon watching videos on bread making techniques, only to nap through most of them. Truth be told, it wasn’t a terrible loss, because most of what I did watch, I already knew.
Around 3:00 PM I finally got up, did a bit of housekeeping, and then went out to get the mail. When I stepped outdoors, I realized the temperature had warmed up quite a bit from this morning, and I thought maybe I’d take a walk.
As I turned to head back inside, I was facing southeast, and the sky stopped me. It looked like there was a real possibility of a respectable sunset. So the walk went from a “maybe” to a definite.
I ended up walking a couple miles, stopping at several locations along the way to take photos. The sunset seemed to unfold slowly—like the unwrapping of another small present that the day decided to hand me.
This time of year, getting a respectable sunrise in the morning and an equally respectable sunset in the evening, all in the same day, is a rarity. But I certainly won’t complain about it.
When I got back home, I made myself a bowl of soup and toasted a couple slices of homemade bread for dinner. While I was making the toast, I realized I’m down to my last loaf again… so after dinner I mixed up another double batch of dough and spent the next couple hours getting it finished and into the refrigerator for a cold ferment overnight.
I’ll probably go downstairs and work on my blog for a bit, and then call it a day.
Some days the best you can do is keep living, and let the light find you when it can. I didn’t do much… but I did enough to make it through the day with my heart intact.
As I mentioned previously, last night while browsing for some info on grief and grieving, I came across something that moved me to the point of remembering it for the better part of the day today. When I went out for a brief walk this evening it came back to me ever so clearly:
January 6, 2026
It’s 7:50 AM on Tuesday, January 6, and when I peer out the back door all I can see is a wall of gray. Another one of those typical Western Pennsylvania winter days, where the weather will most likely not be your friend.
I woke up around 3:30 AM, then managed to get back to sleep. I didn’t climb out of bed until 7:00, which, looking at the big picture, counts as a relatively decent night’s rest for me.
I have a 10:30 AM appointment to get my car inspected. After that, I’m hoping to stop at a nearby Home Depot to check out some patio door options. The one I have now is starting to show some serious signs of wear and tear.
As I work on my second cup of coffee, I can’t help but notice the kitchen and dining room floors are definitely due for some attention. With all the cooking I’ve been doing lately, even though I try to keep up, it’s time. So that’ll be one of the first things I tackle this morning: vacuuming first, then a good steam clean should do the trick.
Tonight I finally sat down for the first time all day. Car inspection at 10:30, then the market, and I got caught up in sale tags the way you do when you see things you actually use. Unfortunately I never made it to Home Depot, but tomorrow is another day, perhaps after my CT Scan appointment.
The big turn of the day was sauerkraut and pork. I walked past it at first because it’s never been my favorite, but something pulled me back. Maybe it was Fran tapping my shoulder, especially with Thursday being our anniversary. Fifty-four years. That number still lands heavy and holy at the same time.
I got it into the roaster and the oven, then made soup to use up the vegetables that needed attention, helped along by a bone marrow chicken stock I picked up today. After that I worked on the bread I started last night.
All in all, I got a lot done , and now I’m going to try to sit here a while without tipping into sleep, then maybe add a little to the blog before the recliner wins and I wake up at some ridiculous hour.
And for the “don’t fall asleep immediately” part (without making it a whole production), I will set a timer for 12 minutes, sit upright with a glass of water nearby, and give myself permission to do nothing but breathe and decompress until it goes off. If I fall asleep anyway, I didn’t fail, I just needed it.
January 7, 2026
The Turnaround in the Aisle
As I mentioned yesterday, when I was at the market I walked past the pork and sauerkraut that was on sale, kept going, and then I did an about-face. It wasn’t because I suddenly became a fan of sauerkraut, I never was, and I’m still not, but because it felt like Fran was right there with me, nudging me the way she used to, as if she were saying, “We haven’t had this in a while. You should get it. You should make it.” So I did.
I bought what I needed, brought it home, and made it. And the strange part is… it actually turned out pretty well. Even to my particularly picky palate when it comes to sauerkraut, it was more than just tolerable, it was good. Not perfect, not my favorite meal in the world, but good enough that I caught myself thinking, Well, look at that… as if I’d pulled off something I never expected to enjoy. I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt like more than food. It felt like a small thread connecting the present back to what we were.
Every week since Fran’s passing, I’ve bought a bouquet of flowers and placed it in a small memorial on the hutch cabinet in our dining room. It’s become one of those quiet rituals that I don’t even question anymore, something steady, something I can do with my hands when everything else feels unsteady. Today I’m going to buy white roses, the same flowers she carried on the day we were married, and place them there in her memory. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels right.
Tomorrow would have been our 54th wedding anniversary, and I can’t pretend I’m handling it well. The truth is, this is tearing me apart. Sometimes it feels like I’m moving through the day underwater, everything muffled, heavy, and slow, and at this moment I don’t even know how to put it into proper words. I only know this: she is still with me in the smallest moments… in an aisle at a market, in my kitchen, and in the space on that hutch where flowers keep showing up, because love keeps insisting on being seen.
January 8, 2026 (Our Wedding Anniversary Day in 1972)
The Back Pew, With Your Rings in My Pocket
I went into the church today carrying you.
Not in a way that anyone else could see, not in a photograph held up or a story told out loud, but in the quietest, most literal way: your rings in my pocket. Your wedding ring. Your engagement ring. Your anniversary ring. Three small circles of metal that somehow still hold the weight of a whole life.
I kept my hand near them the way you keep your fingers near a light switch in a dark hallway, not because you’re afraid of the room, exactly, but because you need to know you can change something if the fear starts to rise. Grief has become that kind of hallway for me. Some days I can walk through it. Other days it feels like the walls lean in.
When I stepped inside from the cold, there were people at the door who looked at me and knew. They didn’t know why, but they knew something. The face gives it away, even when the mouth tries to stay polite. Someone greeted me kindly and wished me a good day. I nodded and managed something close to a thank you, and I remember thinking how strange it is that words can be so ordinary and still feel like a lifeline. A simple “good day” can sound like an act of faith when you’re not sure what a good day even means anymore.
I chose a seat near the back, close to the aisle, close to an exit. Not because I wanted to be far from God, but because I wanted to be close to air. I wanted a plan. If my chest tightened, if my eyes started to spill, if the underwater feeling came back, I needed to know I could step out without making my grief everyone else’s business. I needed the back pew today. The back pew is where you go when you’re trying to be brave and you’re not sure you can pull it off for very long.
And I have to tell you, Fran, walking into that church without you felt like walking into a room where our voices used to live. Even with people around, it felt like absence had taken a seat beside me.
Not long after, your brother Paul appeared and sat next to me. He didn’t waste time with small talk; he went straight to what mattered. He asked me to pray for his sister-in-law. He and his wife Patty had found her in her home a few days ago, and from all indications she had a stroke. She didn’t recognize them. Didn’t know who they were. They called an ambulance. She went to the hospital. He said she’s improving, but the kind of improving that still leaves you shaken, still leaves you staring at the ceiling at night. The kind that makes you realize how quickly a body can change the rules on you.
He told me he normally sits at the front and asked if I wanted to join him. I thanked him, but I stayed where I was. I needed the back. I needed the rings in my pocket. I needed you close in the only way I can have you close now.
Mass began. Then, through the same back door I’d used, a woman came in who looked like she had been living on the outside of life for a long time. I couldn’t say her age for sure, maybe in her forties, maybe younger, but hardship doesn’t ask permission before it adds years to a face. Her clothes were layered, soiled, tattered, the kind of layers people wear when winter isn’t a season, it’s a daily opponent. I could tell almost immediately she was homeless. Not as a judgment. Just as a fact written in fabric and posture and the way a person moves when they haven’t been allowed to feel safe anywhere for awhile.
She entered, then turned and left.
A few minutes later she returned. Left again. Returned again.
It went on and on, more times than I could keep track of. Each and every time she came back in, she dipped her hand into the holy water and blessed herself again and again, fifteen, twenty quick blessings each time, like she was trying to calm something inside her that would not settle. Like she was trying to scrub off fear. Like she was trying to convince herself she still belonged in a place like this.
She never sat. Not once. She stood at the back of the church to my left, hovering near the door. It struck me that she and I came in with different kinds of pain, but we were both positioned the same way, close to an exit. I chose it because I was grieving you. She chose it because she has learned that staying too long in any one place can be dangerous. But the body doesn’t always care why it’s braced to flee. The body only knows it needs the option.
And Fran… as I watched her, I kept thinking about you. About the way you used to walk into places and make them warmer without even trying. About how you always noticed people. You would have noticed her. You would have looked at her in a way that didn’t reduce her to a label. You would have seen the person first.
During Mass she glanced over at me a couple of times and smiled. Not a big smile. Not a performance. Just a quick, almost shy curve of the lips, like a human signal flare that said, I see you. Then she was back to moving in and out again, blessing herself again and again, standing, leaving, returning, like the doorway was the only place her nervous system could tolerate being.
She went out for Communion, but even that was hesitant. She approached, stopped, drifted back, then edged forward again, circling the center aisle like someone trying to decide whether grace is something meant for her or something she’s only allowed to witness from a distance. Eventually she stepped into line, moved toward the altar, and received.
Something happened in me then, Fran. I felt fortunate.
Not in a smug way. Not in a “look at me” way. More like an ache of gratitude that made me uncomfortable because it existed alongside sorrow. I felt fortunate that I have a home to go back to. Fortunate that I have people who care about me. Fortunate that I can walk into a church and sit in one place without wondering where I’ll sleep tonight.
Then I felt guilty for even calling it fortunate, because how can the world be arranged in such a way that those things aren’t just normal for everyone? How can someone become discarded? How does a person end up living in layers of cold and moving through a sanctuary like they’re afraid of being caught in it?
When Mass ended, your brother came back from the front and found me. Before we left, I asked him about the woman, if he knew her story, if he’d seen her before. He confirmed what I suspected: she’s homeless. She’s been around for a couple of years. She’s there in the mornings sometimes, looking for handouts. The church has tried to help her a number of times, but beyond that, there wasn’t much more to tell.
That’s the part that keeps playing in my mind now, like a song stuck on repeat.
Because I went into that church trying to hold onto you. Trying to keep my grief from swallowing me. Instead I found myself watching another person try to hold onto something, holy water, a doorway, a blessing repeated until it almost became a heartbeat.
So yes, maybe it was a sign.
Not a sign that everything will be okay. Not a sign that pain has an explanation. But a sign that my love for you still points outward. That even in the middle of losing you, I can still recognize another human being. That my heart is shattered, but it isn’t hardened.
Now, Fran, this is the prayer I have tonight. It’s not fancy. It’s not polished. It’s just the truest thing I can say:
Hold her. Hold her the way I wish I could still hold you. Warm her. Feed her. Protect her. Put decent people in her path. The right help. Real help, and if there is anything I can do, anything that is wise and safe and genuinely helpful, nudge me toward it.
And hold me too.Because I’m still learning how to live in a world where I carry your rings in my pocket instead of your hand in mine.
It’s 8:15 PM, and I woke from an accidental nap the way you surface from deep water, disoriented, heavy, and suddenly aware of the quiet. Earlier, when I returned home from Pittsburgh with Bob, the sky caught my eye. The clouds had that layered, unsettled look that sometimes hints at a memorable sunset, so I went out for a walk and let the evening lead me. I found a tree stump and sat there for nearly an hour, camera ready, watching the sun descend with slow patience. The dramatically intense color that I was anticipating finally arrived, and so did the stillness of the moment, sitting there alone, without you by my side.
Even the chill that crept in felt honest, winter reminding me what time of year it is, even on a day that flirted with sixty degrees. I couldn’t help think how this warm spell felt like an old echo, because on our wedding day in 1972, the high somehow reached an almost unbelievable 67.°
This was an anniversary day, January 8, the date Fran and I were married in 1972. I went to Mass at the Catholic church where we began our life together, carrying more than I could neatly name, love, grief, gratitude, and the ache of everything we did and everything we never got to do.
Later, my friend Bob took me into the Strip District, and we walked among markets and restaurants and the beautiful noise of people living their lives. We talked. We kept moving. I felt the steadying kindness of a friend who shows up on the days that can swallow a man.
Now I’m home again, where silence can be both sanctuary and storm. The memories return, precious, relentless, bringing comfort and pain in the same breath. I’m grateful for the day, grateful for Bob, grateful for a sky that gave me calm even without spectacle. I miss my beloved Fran, plain and deep, because love doesn’t leave when the person does.
Happy anniversary, Fran. I’m still here, still loving you.
January 9, 2026
6:28 AM — Friday, January 9, 2026
Last night was difficult, troubling in a way that lingers. Yesterday was Fran’s and my anniversary, and I did a lot of soul-searching. For whatever reason, I kept trying to find something, anything, to plug my mind for a while.
When I got home, it didn’t take long before I found my recliner and tried to unwind from the thoughts and activities I pushed myself through during the day. I fell asleep in the recliner, but only for a short while. When I woke up, the heaviness was still there, still talking with Fran the way I’ve been doing more and more lately. One of those one-way conversations. I caught myself asking her, How is it possible in this day and age that people can be homeless, discarded, cast aside, left to suffer, in a world so plentiful?
Since Fran’s passing, I’ve been enduring heartache every moment of every day. I’ll admit there are times, when I can keep myself busy doing something, anything when the ache isn’t quite as intense. But the quiet times are different. The moments when I finally sit to try and unwind, I only find myself winding up tighter. I start thinking about things I have absolutely no control over, trying to solve the problems of the world when I can barely solve my own.
The chance encounter I had yesterday at the church where Fran and I were married, the homeless woman, was incredibly troubling. And strange as it sounds, it continues to trouble me even now.
The irony of it all is hard to ignore. Yesterday, in a church that’s supposed to be a sanctuary, there were plenty of people there, and this poor soul, who seemed to be searching for something, maybe peace, maybe recognition, maybe a sense of security, seemed to be dismissed. Tossed aside. A casualty of an unfortunate life.
In the sermon, the priest said that in order to love God, we have to love our brothers and sisters, because if we can’t do that, we can’t possibly love God. That line has been echoing in my head.
As I’ve said many times, I don’t consider myself a religious person. But I do consider myself spiritual. As a child, and probably up through my teenage years, I attended church regularly. I participated in the Catholic youth organization and even served as president for a year. Then one day I came to the realization that it just wasn’t working for me. The pieces weren’t fitting together. It all somehow felt a bit phony.
Maybe that’s why I don’t attend services regularly anymore. Maybe, over the years, I’ve hardened in ways I don’t like, starting to believe people have to look out for themselves, that no one really cares, that no one is going to go out of their way to help. To me, that is truly unfortunate.
And yet, even as I write this, I know the tenderness in me didn’t disappear, it’s still here, raw and exposed, especially now. Maybe that’s part of what grief does: it widens the place where you feel things, even the things you can’t fix. Fran had a way of noticing people, of seeing them, without making a show of it. Maybe what’s bothering me most isn’t only what I witnessed, but what it asked of me. Not to solve the world's problems, but to refuse to look away. If I can’t do that, even in small moments, then what am I holding onto, other than my own sorrow?
If it was in my means I would certainly like to address , at least locally, this issue of homelessness, and I must say that last night, when I finally turned into bed, I laid there for quite a while thinking to myself there are people sleeping in the street, in gutters, in doorways, totally despicable conditions who are lonely, cold, frightened, and that’s just totally unacceptable. To be perfectly honest, I can’t even imagine how people endure such conditions, how do they maintain the resolve to continue on.
It’s just not right.
January 10, 2026
It’s 5:50 PM on Saturday, January 10, and I’m standing here at the back patio door looking at it with a bit of disdain, mostly because I haven’t accomplished much of anything today. I thought I was getting off to a decent start: woke up around 5 AM, went back to bed, and didn’t really get moving until close to 8. When I glanced outside, it was obvious this was going to be one of those blaughhhh, gray days. The only saving grace was the temperature, well above normal, which should’ve felt like a gift, but somehow it didn’t. My mood matched the sky and stayed there most of the day.
I had bread cold-fermenting in the refrigerator that needed baked off. The first loaf went in around 1:00 and came out beautifully.
The second went in at 1:45, and that’s where I made my mistake: I sat down in the recliner “just until the timer goes off.” Of course, I fell into a deep sleep and never heard it, at least not the first time. At some point I caught a smell in the room, not quite registering what it was… until it hit me like a bucket of cold water: Oh shit—there’s bread in the oven.
I got up fast, hoping it wasn’t ruined. The crust was several shades beyond chestnut brown and I honestly thought it was a total loss. My first instinct was to toss it, garbage, birds, anything. But I cut into it anyway. Even with a sharp serrated knife it felt like trying to slice through a turtle shell with a butter knife. And then, steam. The inside was alive, moist, and damn near perfect with a nice crumb. The outside, though… it was like I’d toasted the loaf and forgotten it for four or five cycles.
I made myself a bowl of soup, and somehow that became the fix. The soup gave the crust what it couldn’t give itself: moisture, softness, mercy. I ended up eating half the loaf with that bowl, and for a moment it felt like I’d salvaged more than just bread.
But the tiredness stayed. I’m not sure why, sleeping until 8 shouldn’t wipe me out like this, but I felt heavy all day. mLater, I went downstairs to do a little work at the desk and caught myself nodding off mid-search, nose dipping toward the desktop more than once. Eventually I came back upstairs, cleaned up, prepped for tomorrow’s coffee, then went back downstairs to the laundry room and got a load of laundry into the wash.
Now I’m back in the recliner with relaxing music, the TV on, and YouTube playing Naturescape, those impossibly beautiful places scattered around the world. It’s meant to soothe, but tonight it’s doing the opposite. All I can think about is how Fran and I used to talk about traveling to places like that, and how that’s not going to happen now.
At minimum, I’ll move the laundry to the dryer. After that, I honestly don’t know. Tonight feels like a quiet room with too much space in it.
January 11, 2026
Sunday arrived wrapped in fog and thin places.
I didn’t find my way to bed until around two in the morning, and when I woke at 5:30 it felt like I surfaced through layers, like the night had been running on more than one track. In a dream I was finishing the Black Forest cake for dinner, hands busy, mind focused, everything ordinary and purposeful… until, in an instant, I realized I was lying in bed. The kind of awakening that makes you stare at the clock and wonder, quietly, if you’re losing your footing, or simply brushing up against the strange edge where sleep and reality trade places.
And then there was Fran.
Earlier, and again in that in-between space where the mind is half tide and half shore, I heard her voice the way I used to, clear enough to turn my head toward it. “Tony… Tony… wake up.” I answered without thinking, the old reflex still alive in me: “OK, OK… give me a minute.” Comfort and ache braided together. Love has its own echoes, and grief doesn’t always arrive gently.
Still, the day asked to be lived, and I did my best to meet it.
Last night’s baking had gone beautifully, three small, proud seven-inch layers that rose like they meant it. Buttermilk in place of water, sour cream, an extra egg, and a whisper of espresso, small choices that felt like little anchors.
The cake layers were already baked and waiting, chilled and ready. I sliced, divided, and made a plan: one cake would become a four-layer centerpiece for the dinner, and the extra layer would become a smaller two-layer cake for home. I felt organized. Almost steady.
Then I opened the pantry...
I went looking for what I knew I had, cherry pie filling, cherry dessert topping, something, only to discover that what I’d been counting on was strawberry, not cherry. At that hour, close to 6 AM, it was a small dilemma that felt larger than it should have. Not a crisis, just one of those moments where you stand there, half-awake, and think, Really? This? Today? The solution was straightforward, wait it out until a nearby market opened at 7.
So I did what I could in the meantime, and on the way to the store, I made a stop that felt good.
Last Thursday, when Bob and I went down to Pittsburgh, I saw a Steelers T-shirt that I just had to buy, a belated birthday gift for my brother-in-law. He and his wife are true fans, the kind of people who will wear something like that with pride until it’s threadbare.
I left the house around 7:30, swung by his place, and dropped it off, knowing he’d probably be wearing it tomorrow for the playoff game.
From there, I did what I rarely do, I stopped at Burger King because I had a coupon. Sausage and egg croissant, potato tots, three French toast sticks, and a coffee… six bucks. Even calling it a bargain felt like saying it with a raised eyebrow. It filled the gap, but it didn’t feel like much for what it cost, another little modern day shrug of a moment.
Once I finally made my way through the market and got what I needed, I came home and got to work. The four-layer cake came together the way I’d pictured it, and it’s the one I took to my daughter’s. After that, I started in on the two-layer cake I kept behind, still good, still waiting, still not quite finished.
And then the day did what days sometimes do—it kept unfolding.
Upon completing the unexpected morning cherry topping run I proceeded to build the cake with care: whipped cream strengthened to hold its shape, cherries tucked into the layers, almonds pressed along the sides, dark chocolate shavings crowning the top. The part I worried about, getting it there safely, turned out to be simple: a box, a damp towel, and a steady drive. No slipping, no sliding, no trouble.
Dinner at my daughter and son-in-law’s was exactly what I needed it to be. We gathered to celebrate my son-in-laws fathers 74th birthday, his parents, his grandmother, my grandson, my daughter, my son-in-law, and me, sharing a meal, but more than that, sharing the easy warmth of conversation. The kind that reminds you you’re still connected to something living and good.
Now it’s 10 PM. I woke from what I thought would be a quick nap—four hours disappeared like a page turned without noticing. Smooth jazz fills the room. The house is quiet. Sleep may be a long shot tonight, but I’m here, moving around, breathing, thinking, still listening for meaning in the ordinary.
In the refrigerator, there’s still a second cake, iced but unfinished, waiting patiently for the rest of its story.
January 12, 2026
It’s been one of those winter Mondays where the day starts early and the momentum comes in fits and starts. I was up at 5:15 AM and out of bed by 5:30, hoping I might drift back off, but it didn’t happen. By 5:45 I had the coffee going and tried to ease myself into “another day,” only to get greeted by a small aggravation: the refrigerator water dispenser wouldn’t work. Not a great moment. I fussed with it for a few minutes and gave up, immediately remembering a similar issue from a year or two ago when a repairman found the feed line had frozen and blocked the flow. I started mentally preparing to pull the refrigerator out, clear space, and deal with it later, one of those chores you don’t want, but can’t ignore forever.
Somehow, the day improved in small ways. I managed to get the TV working again without it turning into a whole production, and the water dispenser more or less “fixed itself,” which felt like a minor mercy. Still, the evening reminded me why I shouldn’t test fate: after dinner I sat down “just for a few minutes” to catch the news, and predictably, I fell asleep for about an hour and a half. I woke up groggy when my daughter called around 7:00 PM to check in, ask what I’d been doing, and what plans I had for the rest of the night. While we were talking, Bob called, and I didn’t pick up, figuring I’d call him back after. Then he texted me, joking that I must be tailgating at the Steelers game. Yeah… no. There’s a snowball’s chance in hell I’d attend a pro football game even in perfect weather, let alone freeze my tail off for one.
So here I am at 8:54 PM, finally sitting down with the intention of doing something constructive, hoping the fog clears a bit, and even thinking ahead to food, because I’ve been craving a chicken salad recipe that isn’t the standard everyday version. Something different. Something with a little personality.
A few days ago I mentioned that I received an old photograph from Fran's cousin, who currently lives in Ohio. Ever since Fran's passing we had been in fairly consistent communication with one another. He is, I believe, eighty two years old his wife has MS, he is the primary caregiver, and the prognosis is not very good.
We often talk and text about Fran's side of the family and all of the memories we have, both good and bad.
As I was going through my text messages today I happen across that photo again and it moved me more than I could have possibly imagined.
I didn’t expect to be stopped in my tracks by a set of photographs, but that’s exactly what happened.
I proceeded to bring up a couple of pictures I still had on my phone of Fran and then viewed them along side the old photo of Fran's mother and several of her siblings. I don't know for sure but I would guess the old photo was taken in the 1940's.
The first image I was making a comparison with was Fran as a high school senior, a formal portrait, carefully posed, the kind of picture that used to live in frames on living-room shelves. But what you notice first isn’t the hairstyle or the year stamped invisibly into the black-and-white. It’s her expression: that open smile and the bright, attentive eyes that make you feel like the person in the photo is already fully present, already herself, even at such a tender age.
The second image fast-forwards through life. It’s something I made for her years ago as a Christmas gift, a photographic print with words I chose because they felt true. It shows her with the two grandkids we had at the time, holding them close, and somehow you can see the same girl from the senior portrait still there, not changed, exactly, just deepened. The smile is familiar, but it carries more history. The eyes are the same, but now they hold that “safe place” look, the kind of calm that little ones lean into without thinking. When I look at that one, I don’t just see a person in a picture. I see a role she grew into and wore naturally: caregiver, anchor, shelter from the storm.
And then there’s the third photograph, the one that arrived like a quiet thunderclap.
It’s Fran's mother, young, in a family grouping with brothers and sisters. She’s in the foreground, almost kneeling, leaning in toward the camera with that easy, unforced smile. In the first instant my brain didn’t file her under “mother” at all, it filed her under her daughter. Same structure in the face. Same lift at the corners of the mouth. Same look in the eyes, that unmistakable warmth that doesn’t need an introduction.
Fran and I were married for over fifty three years and dated almost two years before being married. Long enough that I would have sworn I knew the shape of her family resemblance, who she took after, who she didn’t, and yet I never saw it like this, never saw it so clearly, it felt undeniable. It’s strange how that works. How life can give you fifty plus years of familiarity, and then one old photograph comes along and turns a light on in a room you thought you already knew.
The three images together feel like a small lesson. We think of time as a straight line, a girl becomes a woman, a woman becomes a mother, a mother becomes a grandmother, but sometimes it’s more like a circle. A smile returns. A gaze repeats itself. A person shows up again in the face of someone you love, and suddenly the past doesn’t feel distant. It feels present, as if the family story is still being written in the same handwriting, just on a different page.
And for a moment, just a moment, the world feels stitched together in a way that’s both comforting and a little bittersweet. Because it reminds you how much carries forward… and how much you wish you could tell the people in those older pictures what their future would look like: warm arms, laughing children, a life that grew into exactly what that first smile promised.
After gazing at the photo's, and a few others I managed to locate fairly quickly, I was compelled to carry my thoughts a bit further, and wrote a letter to Fran:
Dearest Fran,
Today I got handed something I didn’t know I needed, and didn’t know I could handle so calmly until it was sitting right in front of me.
I received a photo of your mother, young, surrounded by brothers and sisters. She’s the one in the foreground, almost kneeling, leaning in toward the camera like she belonged there. And Fran… I swear to you, for a second my heart didn’t recognize it as your mother at all. It recognized it as you. Same light in the eyes. Same smile shape. Same soft kind of strength that doesn’t ask permission to be steady.
And it startled me.
Not because I didn’t know families carry their faces forward. We all know that in our heads. But this was different. This was like time folded in half and two eras touched. Like someone opened a door and for one second I could see a familiar soul standing in a stranger’s year.
You know what’s strange? All those years, nearly fifty-four married, plus the years before, and I never once saw that resemblance so clearly. I used to think your sister had the “family look.” I used to think I had it figured out. Then one old photograph shows up and rearranges my certainty in an instant. It made me realize how much we can live beside something and not truly see it until the right moment, the right light, the right angle.
It reminded me of you, too. How I’ll catch something, an expression, a tilt of the head, a certain look in the eyes, on a day when I’m just trying to get through the hours. It’s never dramatic. It’s always quiet. But it lands. And suddenly I’m holding two things at once: the ache of you not being here the way you used to be, and the comfort of you still showing up in the world in these small, almost-secret ways.
This photo did that. It made me feel connected to a line of people and years that existed long before I ever came along. It made me think about how a person doesn’t just appear out of nowhere, how they’re formed, and carried, and echoed. Like a song that keeps being played, not exactly the same each time, but unmistakable in its melody.
I wish I could sit with you right now, just you and me, no noise, no TV acting up, no appliances choosing Monday morning to make a point. I’d put the picture in your hands and watch your face while you took it in. I’d listen to what you’d say, the little observations you always had, the way you could make one small detail feel like a truth.
Mostly, I’d just like to hear your voice. That’s the honest part.
But since I can’t, I’m writing it to you instead, because you’re still the one I talk to when something moves me. You’re still the one I want beside me when a photo can stop time and make my heart do that quick, confused thing, like it doesn’t know whether to smile or cry.
I’m okay tonight. A little shaken, a little tender. But okay, and in a strange way, grateful, because for a moment the world felt stitched together, and I could see how love and family leave their fingerprints across generations.
I miss you, Fran.
Loving You Always, and All Ways
Tony
January 13, 2026
5:42 AM, first cup of coffee, and when I look out the back door it’s the same story again: a sky packed with clouds. It’s 29° outside, but it feels more like 18°, the kind of cold that makes you hesitate before you even touch the door handle.
Bob called last night and reminded me today is Barbara's birthday, so I’m going to finish the second cake I baked for Sunday’s family party and bring it over to celebrate with them. I’m also making Italian sausage with peppers, onions, and mushrooms, served on hard rolls from the Italian market on the way. It feels good to have a plan that involves bringing people together, especially in the middle of winter.
I didn’t get to bed until around 1:30 AM. Around midnight I printed a watercolor piece with the poem God’s Garden over it as a birthday gift for Barbra. After I printed it, it just didn’t feel complete without a frame, so I cut a mat, found a frame I had on hand, and finished it right then and there. I think she’ll appreciate it, especially because she’s such a talented watercolor artist.
Before bed I added a few things to my blog, including three photos of Fran and the picture her cousin recently sent, the one of Fran’s mother, when she was very young. The resemblance is almost unreal. Trying to describe that comparison cracked something open in me, and it took a while to settle myself back down. By the time I finally turned in, it was about 1:15. I fell asleep instantly… and then I was awake again at 4:45, wide-eyed, knowing I probably wasn’t going back under.
The forecast isn’t promising, heavy cloud cover again, high around 42°. I can handle 42° in January. It’s the endless gray that wears me down. These cloudy days feel like they press on everything, and I’m already carrying enough.
It’s 7:00 PM and I just finished up a batch of Sunseri-style “Legendary Dipping Peppers,” my own fridge version clone. Funny how that happened: when I went to the market this morning, they had every variety of pepper I needed. I wasn’t even planning to make them right away, but seeing everything in front of me felt like a little nudge, so I grabbed what I needed and decided tonight was the night.
This afternoon I went over to Bob and Barbara's. I brought her a birthday cake, and I also brought sweet Italian sausage with peppers, onions, and mushrooms so we could make hoagies for lunch. I got there around 12:45 and Bob and I waited until Barbra got home from an appointment. Once she was back, we put lunch together and settled in.
After lunch we had a piece of the Black Forest cake, similar to the one I made Sunday for my son-in-law’s father’s birthday. Bob and Barbara were genuinely thrilled with what I brought, and were so grateful in that way that reminds me how lucky I am to have them in my life.
And then they surprised me...
My birthday is at the end of the month (January 31), and they handed me a gift: an AeroGarden, a small hydroponic growing system that sits right on the kitchen counter. They have one, and I’ve commented more than once about what a great idea it is. Evidently they picked up on that, tucked it away, and turned it into something real.
It’s hard to put into words how thankful I am for friends like them, kind, considerate, and generous beyond belief. Days like today remind me that even when the skies are heavy and the season feels gray, there’s still warmth in the world, and sometimes it shows up in the simplest ways: a shared meal, a birthday cake, a surprise gift, and the comfort of being with people who care.
I’ve still got a couple things to tend to tonight before turning in, including the clothes that are still somehow not folded, and I’d like to add a bit more to my blog. I’m glad I finished those peppers before sitting down… because if I sit first, I know exactly what happens next: I’ll be asleep within minutes.
January 14, 2026
It’s 4:47 PM on Wednesday, January 14, and I’m sitting here in this incredibly quiet house feeling almost guilty for not having accomplished much of anything today.
I woke up around 5:15 AM and finally got out of bed about 5:30. Somewhere between five or six cups of coffee, I eventually made it down to the laundry room and turned on the dryer to fluff the clothes that were still in there… thinking, this is something I need to take care of today. Regretfully, it’s almost 5 PM now and those clothes are still in the dryer.
The only thing I really managed to do was cut up some chicken I bought a couple days ago, portion it into smaller bags, and tuck it all away into the freezer for another day. Not exactly headline news, but it’s something. I also roasted some garlic I picked up yesterday at the Italian market. Once it cools down I’ll squeeze it out of the skins and put it into a jar with a bit of olive oil, another small thing for future meals, another small thing for another day.
Mostly, today was spent in the recliner with a little jazz in the background, a few pleasant videos on the TV, and a lot of looking at the back of my eyelids. Since I didn’t go to bed last night until about 1:30 AM and got out of bed at 5:30, I suppose my body was trying to tell me something. But rest still feels pointless to me sometimes, like it’s a waste of time, which leads me back to a question that seems to show up daily: How much time do I really have left?
It’s lonely in this house since Fran passed, about 95% of the time, but today felt lonelier than usual. The weather didn’t help. Gray, cloudy, overcast all day, and from what I’ve seen on various reports it may stay that way for the next 7 to 10 days: cold, below freezing, rain, snow… more of the same. Even in my younger days, dismal weather affected me. Now it feels amplified. Days like this can make or break my attitude, and today the weather wasn’t making it, it was most definitely breaking it.
Right now, the house is dim with a lamp on low, the TV is playing nature scapes with soft music, and I’m trying not to judge myself for how today went. If I can manage to get down to the computer later and add a bit more here, and hopefully get those clothes out of the dryer and folded before the day is over, I’ll call that a win.
After another hour or so, of napping in the recliner, I woke up again and remembered the garlic. Oh yeah, the garlic. Fortunately I had turned the oven off to let it cool, so it was ready to be removed from the skins and put into a jar for future use. I got myself up and managed to get that task completed. Cleaned up a few dishes that were in the sink and then started working on preparing the coffee for tomorrow morning. Once again, no major accomplishments, but something, at least something.
As a footnote, I need to remind myself about that laundry that's still calling me, even though I'm certain that tomorrow morning it will still be calling...
January 15, 2026
5:58 AM — Thursday, January 15
First cup of coffee, patio door cracked, and winter came rushing in, 21 degrees outside with a feel-like of five. One of those mornings where the world makes it easy to stay put.
What I can’t shake is what happened before the day even started. A song looped in my mind, quiet at first, then constant, while I washed up, got dressed, poured coffee, like it had taken up residence somewhere behind my ribs.
Then I asked Alexa for smooth jazz… and the first thing that played was the very song that had been living in my head all morning: “Ordinary” by Wayne Brady. That one hits me differently, because I used to say those same words to Fran, how I didn’t need stars or grand things, just an ordinary life with her.
Coincidence, my analytical brain says. Maybe. But my heart heard it as a tap on the shoulder. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just enough to say: I’m still here in the places you already know.
I keep trying to solve the un-solvable. Part of me wants to believe there’s more after this life, and part of me can’t sign my name to anything I can’t defend with evidence. I’m not religious, and I’m not trying to become religious. But I am spiritual in the simplest sense: I believe love is real, and it doesn’t evaporate just because a body stops. So when something lines up, a song in my head and then the same song playing, I’m not calling it a miracle and I’m not dismissing it as “nothing.” I’m calling it what it felt like: a moment that carried Fran’s fingerprint. Maybe that’s all the “more” I get to know for now, and maybe it’s enough to get me through this morning.
Maybe I don’t need certainty to be held by something. Maybe the “after” isn’t a place I can map, but a presence I can still feel, quietly, indirectly, in music, in light, in the strange timing of ordinary mornings. I’m not calling it proof. I’m calling it grace, small enough to be believable, and gentle enough to let me breathe.
A Busy Day & the Strange Magic of AI
It’s 7:22 PM, and today was one of those days where I stayed in motion from start to finish. I finally got the clothes that were sitting in the dryer folded and put away, then ran another load through, and now that one’s ready to fold too.
Somewhere in between those trips to the laundry room, I spent a big chunk of the day revising and retouching wedding photos of Fran and me, along with a few others that show up on this blog. I had plenty of help from AI, but it wasn’t a “push a button and you’re done” kind of thing, not even close. It turned into an ongoing exchange, because accuracy can drift, and the details matter.
AI is remarkable, almost unbelievable, really, but it also demands attention. Sometimes it will hand you back an image that looks polished… and yet doesn’t look like the people in the original photo. That’s the part that surprised me most. When you’re working with pictures like these, you have to watch it closely and keep steering it toward what’s true, instead of letting it wander toward what’s convenient.
I started the day thinking it would be simple. It wasn’t. But it was productive, and in its own strange way, pretty incredible.
And for tonight, that’s enough. I’m going to let the rest of it be quiet.
January 16, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections — Friday, 6:21 AM
I’m sitting in my recliner with my first cup of coffee, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, it tastes especially satisfying this morning. Same coffee, same routine, yet today it feels like something small and special, like a quiet little gift at the start of the day.
Outside, it’s 17°F with a “feels like” of 10°F. I watched the forecast and didn’t see much to get excited about, more of that long, gray stretch that can wear on your mood and motivation before you even get moving.
I spent a good part of yesterday doing laundry and working on restoring wedding photos of Fran and me. The restoration process was fascinating, and at times surprisingly challenging. AI seems to handle single-person photos fairly well, but once there are multiple faces in the frame, things can go sideways fast. Still, the end results looked far better than the originals, and the whole process stirred up memories, so many memories. Going through those photos felt like reliving the moments leading up to our wedding, as if I was walking through that time again.
Last night, I fell asleep quickly, and when I woke up I did what has become an almost daily routine: I searched the room for Fran. For a moment I was somewhere else, listening for familiar sounds, expecting to see her walker by the couch, imagining her curled up under a blanket, trying not to move too much because she needed her rest. Then reality hit me again, hard. It’s been over six months since she passed, and my mind still wakes up in the old world before it returns to this quiet house.
What scares me is the thought that I may never truly get used to the loneliness and the solitude. I used to be content, sometimes even happy, with silence. Now it can feel like an anchor around my neck, pulling me downward into a kind of heavy despair. I know I’m supposed to “get over it,” but some days it’s just so damn difficult.
At 6:21 AM I turned on the television to catch the morning news and was greeted by a notice across the screen: No signal. Check cable connection. It’s something that happens occasionally, and it drives me absolutely crazy, especially considering the ridiculous amount of money I pay every month for cable and internet service. It’s hard not to feel irritated when payment is expected on time, without excuses, yet service can be inconsistent even for a few minutes. Eventually, after unplugging and rebooting the cable box, more than once, actually it finally connected and came back. At least for the moment, the problem seems resolved.
Once the TV settled down, I made my way to the patio door, and there it was: signs of a respectable sunrise. The sky above the horizon had very few clouds, which likely means there won’t be much of a light show, but it also means the day might not turn into that depressing slate-gray from start to finish. The fact that I can actually see the sun this morning is a plus, something small, something real, and at least something I can live with.
Some days, that’s enough: coffee that tastes right, a screen that finally cooperates, and a thin ribbon of light at the horizon reminding me the world keeps turning, even when my heart still wants to go back.
January 17, 2026
It’s 7:37 PM, and I finally have a chance to sit down and take a breather after a busy day in the kitchen.
This morning I made about a gallon and a half of vegetable soup, starting with my homemade bone broth as the base. Into the pot went celery, onions, garlic, zucchini, and crushed plum tomatoes. When it’s time to serve, I’ll add cheese tortellini, finish with a bit of spinach, and top it off with freshly grated Parmesan.
While the soup was simmering, I realized I needed to do something with the sauce I made a few days ago, so I decided to put together a spin on baked ziti. I didn’t have ziti on hand, so I used tortiglioni instead. The sauce was made with San Marzano tomatoes I grew in the garden last summer and froze, plus sweet Italian sausage and chunks of pork butt. I boosted it with tomato paste, a splash of red wine, a dash of Worcestershire, finely diced garlic, and Italian seasoning and a few bay leaves, along with some grape jelly to add a touch of sweetness..
When it came time to assemble the baked pasta, I cooked the tortiglioni and coated it in sauce until the pasta-to-sauce balance felt right. I started with a layer of sauced pasta in the bottom of a baking dish, then added whole-milk ricotta enriched with an egg, fresh basil, extra Italian seasoning, and chopped spinach. Over that went freshly grated mozzarella, Romano, and a little fresh mozzarella. Then another layer of sauced pasta, another layer of cheeses, and a bit more fresh mozzarella on top.
At some point I stepped back and looked at how much food I had made and said to myself: I need guests.
So I called my sister-in-law—who hasn’t been feeling particularly well lately, and invited her to come over for dinner. I told her she was welcome to bring both of her daughters if she wanted. At that moment her oldest daughter, my niece Stacey, wasn’t available, but my sister-in-law said she’d reach out to her and let her know of my intentions/invitation. Her younger daughter is away this weekend, so she won’t be joining us.
Since that left only three people, I also called my daughter, even though she and her husband were just here for dinner last night, and invited them too. Unfortunately I couldn’t get a definite answer because they already had plans, but she thought they might be able to make it. I told her I need to know by tomorrow morning either way, so I can plan how much additional food to prepare.
And as if I hadn’t done enough for one day, I decided to make something special for Stacey because she missed Christmas Eve at my daughter’s house, she was very sick at the time. She loves the bite-size lady locks you can buy, but she likes mine even more. So, in a moment of insanity, I made about four dozen small lady lock shells. Some will probably be dessert tomorrow, and I’ll send extras home with her, too.
Tomorrow should be easier. The soup is done and only needs reheated. The baked pasta is assembled in the dish, covered with foil, and ready to go into the oven about an hour before everyone arrives. The lady lock shells are cooling on the counter, and I won’t fill them until I know how many guests we’re having, because once they’re filled, they can start to get a little soggy if they sit too long.
Evening Brew & Reflections
I’m also planning to make a salad—something fresh to balance out all the comfort food. I’m thinking three different kinds of greens, with cucumbers, peppers, olives, and tomatoes, plus a few extras depending on how it comes together: thin strips of ham, provolone, and maybe even some fresh strawberries for good measure.
Throughout all of today’s cooking, Fran was right there in my thoughts. I kept imagining how much she would have enjoyed tomorrow, good food, family in the house, the kind of gathering she always loved.
Making the lady locks stirred up an old memory from way back, when Fran first started making them and I offered to help. We didn’t have money to buy the proper dowel rods for wrapping the pastry, so Fran improvised, she used wooden clothespins, each one wrapped individually in foil. We used those for years, in fact I still use them to this day, and honestly, they work great. In some ways, they work better than dowels: wider on one end and tapered on the other, which made sliding the pastry off so much easier.
I can still see her wrapping those clothespins in foil. I offered to help, but I was also trying to watch something on TV at the same time. She looked at me and said, in that perfectly Fran way:
Do you want to help me, or do you want to watch TV? If you want to help me, fine, turn the TV off and you can stay in my kitchen. If you want to watch TV, that’s fine too, but you will have to leave my kitchen.
That memory brought a smile first. That was Fran: direct, funny, and totally right. I laughed when it came back to me. The memory arrived with a smile—because it was so her. Then it turned into tears,
because I would give anything to be standing there again, in that kitchen, with her.
January18, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:14 AM on Sunday, January 18, and I’m working on my second cup of coffee while I begin preparations for this afternoon’s dinner with my sister-in-law and my niece. I’m standing at the patio door, looking out at a canvas of gray, low, lined clouds with no expectation of even a remotely respectable sunrise.
For whatever reason, I didn’t sleep very well last night. I woke up numerous times and kept looking at the clock, talking to myself in that way you do when your mind won’t settle. Why am I lying here doing nothing when I could be up doing something constructive? Those thoughts came in waves, in between memories of my incredible life with Fran.
While I was lying there, I kept replaying a memory from the start of my student teaching assignment, fall of 1970. It was shortly after our first summer together, when Fran and I were practically attached at the hip. It was the first summer we had ever really spent together, and even now I replay just about every moment of it on a fairly routine basis.
That fall, Fran was a sophomore at Edinboro, and I was in Jamestown, New York, about 90 miles apart. We didn’t have much money, but I managed to get back to Edinboro every weekend to see her. That was the first time we couldn’t see each other every day. Even though I talked to her on the phone almost daily, it didn’t fill the gap in my heart.
I remember going to a drive-in movie one evening just to try to redirect my mind. I sat there alone in my car, and I couldn't even remember what the movie was about because Fran was constantly on my mind. I felt heartbroken and lonely. That particular kind of loneliness, the ache of missing someone you love, was still fairly foreign to me back then, and I struggled with it more than I understood at the time.
The only thing that kept me going was knowing that I’d see her again. The weekend would come, we’d be together again, and life would be good, actually, great.
But in retrospect, that heartbreak doesn’t even come remotely close to what I’m dealing with now. Back then, there was something to look forward to. There were weekends. There were reunions. There was the certainty that the distance would close and I’d be with her again.
Now there are no weekends to look forward to, no moments to spend together, no closing of the gap. All I have are the memories and the heartbreak that comes with them, and the truth that I will never see her again.
As I stand here gazing out the window, once again on the verge of tears, I have smooth jazz on the radio, Chris Botti's "In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning," with Sting’s vocals come on, as if to push the knife a little deeper, intensifying the heartbreak.
And still… I keep standing here. I keep breathing. I keep making the coffee. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, even on mornings when the sky matches the weight in my chest, because loving Fran was the center of my life, and missing her is the shape that love takes now. I keep preparing for dinner later because life continues to ask things of me, even when my heart would rather stay curled around a memory.
Today I’ll do what I can do. I’ll put the meal together. I’ll welcome my sister-in-law and niece. I’ll let the music play softly in the background instead of letting it pull me under. If the sky refuses to offer a sunrise, I’ll try to remember this: "Fran was always more than the weather outside my window. She was the warmth inside this house, and I carry that warmth forward, imperfectly, tearfully, but honestly."
About a half hour ago, I sent a text to my friend Bob and his wife and extended an invitation to join my sister-in-law, niece and me for dinner today. Bob just responded and said they would love to come.
At least that’s going to bring a little sunshine into a cloudy day. I’m genuinely happy everyone will be here, and I’m looking forward to it. The house will have more life in it, more conversation, more laughter, more of that simple comfort that comes from having good people at your table.
And still, underneath that happiness, there’s the familiar ache: wishing Fran were here to join all of us. No doubt she’ll be here in spirit and in thought, but it just isn’t the same, spirit doesn’t laugh, doesn’t reach for a second helping, doesn’t catch my eye from across the table. That’s the part that still breaks me. I can feel that in the way I’m preparing the meal and setting the tone of the room, like love still has a seat at the table, even if the chair beside me is empty.
Evening Reflections
It’s 8:00 PM, and this is the first time I’ve had a real opportunity to take a break today, aside from sitting down to eat dinner, if that really counts. With four other guests in the house, I was in perpetual motion: bringing more food to the table, clearing used dishes, rinsing things off, and loading the dishwasher along the way, so I wouldn’t be staring down a mountain later.
Dinner went very well. I think everyone was quite pleased, not only with the meal, but with the fact that they left with food to take home for another day. That, to me, is always part of the point: good company, good food, memorable conversation, and a little extra comfort that carries into tomorrow.
After everyone left, it took about an hour to clean up. Nothing dramatic, just rinsing, loading the dishwasher, putting a few leftovers into the refrigerator, and restoring the kitchen to something that feels like “normal.”
As soon as the house emptied out, and the quiet settled in, it started working on me. Consequently, I turned on the TV, turned the volume up, and let the sound fill the rooms, if only to keep the silence from being the loudest thing in the house.
My daughter called around 6:45 PM and asked how dinner went. I told her I thought it went well, everyone seemed content, bellies full. When I mentioned I was tired and wasn’t looking forward to the dishes, she said, “Just leave them until tomorrow.” I laughed and told her, “Now you know me better than that, that would never happen.” I don’t even like waking up to water droplets in the sink, let alone a sink full of dirty dishes.
Pretty much everything is cleaned up now. The only thing I have left is to clean out the coffee pot from this morning and prep it for tomorrow’s coffee. After that, I’ll go downstairs, add a few lines to my blog, and call it a day.
January 19, 2026
It’s 7:52 PM and I’m finally sitting down to gather my thoughts, though it feels like I didn’t really accomplish much today. I didn’t start moving around and getting anything done until late morning, and one of the first things I tackled was calling the doctor’s office to find out what’s going on with my CT scan, why I hadn’t been called, and when someone was going to review it with me. I worked on the computer for a bit, had lunch around noon, and tried to pull together some kind of plan for the rest of the day.
Not long after lunch, I got a call from Fran’s cousin in Ohio. He told me his wife is back in the hospital and not doing well, and the way he sounded, like he was on the verge of tears, hit me hard. It’s strange how our relationship has grown since Fran passed. He reached out right away when he heard, and since then he’s called or texted at least once or twice a week. A lot of the time he wants to talk about Fran’s health issues, her passing, and how I handled everything, trying to relate his situation to mine, in so far as I can determine.
Today he asked me point-blank what I do to keep my mind off it. I told him the truth: there are things that help, but nothing keeps my mind off it completely. I think about it all the time, our life together, our plans, and how everything was cut short. I keep reminding him that grief affects everyone differently, and that what worked for me may not work the same way for him. He’s older than me, he once mentioned being 82, and his wife is from a second marriage, but they’ve been together a long time and have built a full life together.
I told him again that if he ever needs anything, any time, I’ll answer the phone and do my best to help.
Later on, in an effort to keep busy, I mixed up bread dough to bake tomorrow. I doubled the recipe and the dough didn’t feel quite right at first, dry enough that I second-guessed whether I had messed up the water, so I added more, and then it swung the other direction and felt too wet. It turned into a big batch, probably enough for four loaves, and it was a chore to mix because the stand mixer bowl was nearly full. I ended up needing part of it by hand as it tried to climb out of the bowl. Even now it still feels a bit drier than usual for what should be around 74% hydration, though after doing stretch-and-folds it started feeling closer to normal.
I don’t have any real plans tonight beyond maybe adding a bit to the blog and then turning on the TV, though finding something that holds my interest is always a long shot. I did force myself to run to the market today even though I didn’t want to leave the house, because the forecast for tomorrow is brutal, so cold that some nearby school districts are already canceling classes for the whole day due to frigid temperatures, not snow. I’m glad I went today because I know I won’t want to go anywhere tomorrow.
Tomorrow I’ll be focused on finishing this dough and baking the loaves, and I need to make a point of staying on my feet and staying alert while the bread is in the oven. Last time, after the first loaf came out great, I sat down while the second baked and fell asleep—only waking up when I smelled it and realized, oh my God, there’s bread in the oven.
For now, I’m going to keep moving and get the dough to the point it needs to be before I divide it and refrigerate it overnight.
January 20, 2026
5:37 AM is early-early, and with 7°F / feels like -2°F, opening the patio door basically slapped me awake.
The quiet morning and evening hours amplify grief. Morning and evening don’t just feel empty… they feel loud in a different way. That feeling, that “keeping busy” sometimes feels like I'm “betraying” Fran, by trying not to think about her not being here with me. That’s grief trying to keep love close by making me prove it constantly.
5:37 AM
I can’t believe I actually got out of bed this early. When I first woke up around 5:00 AM, I figured it would be for a few minutes, just enough to splash some water on my face and crawl back into bed. But I ended up deciding it was time for coffee and a real start to the day.
I cracked open the back patio door and the cold air hit me like a bus. It’s 7° outside, with a feels like temperature of -2. Way too cold for this guy. I’m hoping I don’t have to leave the house today, but time will tell.
I haven’t checked the bread in the refrigerator yet. That’s on my list soon, just to see how it’s doing. I think it’s heading in the right direction.
Early mornings and evenings are the hardest. That’s when the loneliness gets its teeth into me. The memories are always there, but when it’s quiet, when the house is really still, grief seems to go into high gear.
I keep trying to stay busy so I don’t spiral. Sometimes, oddly, that makes me feel like I’m betraying Fran, like keeping my mind occupied means I’m pushing her away. But the truth is, she isn’t going anywhere.
Learning how to live without the person you’ve spent most of your life with… it’s so damn difficult.
If I stay busy, it isn’t because I’m trying to forget her. It’s because I’m trying to survive the quiet without being swallowed by it. Love doesn’t disappear when I’m distracted. Love is what I’m carrying, every single day.
It seems I need a reality check about now, so I'm considering what options I may have in the next few minutes:
Take two minutes to check the bread (just observe, no decisions yet).
Put on something warm and give myself one small “house sound” (low TV, soft music, kettle, anything).
Then: one simple task I can finish before the world wakes up (even if it’s just washing yesterday’s coffee mug).
The most important thing: staying busy isn’t betrayal. It’s my building a bridge across the hours that hurt the most. Fran doesn’t get erased by me functioning, if anything, the love is why the quiet hurts.
It’s 8:03 AM and while in the process of dividing and shaping bread dough, I couldn’t help but notice the light coming through the patio doors getting quite bright. Obviously, I had to check it out, because I wasn’t expecting much of a sunrise this morning, if any. Much to my surprise, the old haymaker was doing its thing and I managed to catch it just as it moved into the portal, between the two old locust trees behind my house. Perhaps today has some promise after all, but it’s still bitterly cold outside.
Morning Brew & Reflections — Bread, Abundance, and an Old Friendship
At around 6:00 AM this morning, about an hour after I was up and moving around, and after I had finished my first cup of coffee, I decided it was time to start prepping the bread to bake off during the day. Once I pulled the dough from the refrigerator after its overnight cold ferment, it didn’t take long to realize I was going to have quite a bit of bread on my hands, an abundance, if you will.
I already knew my daughter would take a loaf, and I had just given my sister-in-law and my friend Bob a loaf on Sunday, so I decided to send a text to someone very special, Nancy, a dear friend we’ve known for as long as we’ve lived here, since returning from the Poconos and settling in the Pittsburgh area.
Nancy is tied into the “old roots” part of our life. Her then-husband and my brother-in-law were close friends, all through high school, and they remain friends to this day. Over the years, Nancy and Fran became close as well, especially since Nancy and my brother-in-law’s friend Keith had children around the same age as ours. In a way, it always felt like we were all growing up together, even while life pulled everyone in different directions.
When Fran and I moved back to western Pennsylvania, we rented for about three years before deciding to build a house. We built in 1984, and not long after that we quickly realized we’d need additional income if we were going to pay the mortgage and still live at the level we were accustomed to.
That’s where Nancy changed the course of things for us. Nancy was working for the county as a district justice secretary at the time. When an opening came up in the office where she worked, she recommended Fran to the district justice. Fran got the job, and that recommendation became the beginning of what turned into an almost sister-like relationship between the two of them. They worked side-by-side for years in the same office, for the same district justice. Even after Nancy moved on to a higher-paying job with better benefits, she and Fran remained close. They visited often, stayed in touch, and held onto a bond that never really faded.
Nancy has remained a friend to this day. She visited and called Fran on a regular basis, even before Fran became ill, and still calls occasionally to see how I’m doing. That simple act of checking in has meant more than she probably realizes.
So this morning, around 6:30 AM, I texted her and told her I’d be baking bread today, and that if she wanted to stop by, she was more than welcome to take a loaf home.
Before 7:00 AM she had already responded. First she said she’d love to, then she followed up saying she had an appointments, then another message about a family dinner she needed to host this evening. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it.
At around 11:00 AM, the phone rang. It was Nancy asking if she could stop by for the bread after all. I’m genuinely glad she did.
We ended up having a wonderful conversation. We talked about Fran, about what’s been going on in both of our lives, and it felt good, one of those visits that doesn’t have to be long to matter. While she was here, I sent her home with a little care package: a quart of soup, a loaf of bread, and a sampling of the lady locks I made on Sunday, some to try here and a few to take home. I also gave her the recipe for the spice cake waffles, which she tried while she was here and really enjoyed.
It was really nice to touch base with her. Nancy is one of those rare people, kind, considerate, and genuinely compassionate. She has told me more than once that if she could have lived the kind of life Fran lived, if she could have somehow emulated Fran through her own body, that would have been one of her greatest accomplishments.
That’s a powerful thing for someone to say, and it reminded me of something important:
Sometimes a loaf of bread is more than bread. Sometimes it’s a reason to reconnect, and a reason to remember.
January 21, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:55 AM on a Wednesday morning, and I’m posted up by the patio door with my third cup of coffee. Smooth jazz is drifting through the kitchen. Bloomberg Surveillance is running in the living room. Two streams at once, music in one ear, the world in the other, and I can feel myself getting pulled into that familiar place where concern starts to tighten its grip.
Even though Fran is in my thoughts every minute of every day, the noise of the outside world has a way of barging in. It’s hard not to be distracted by the craziness going on right now, the markets, the headlines, the geopolitics—like everything is riding a track that could dip without warning.
Fran and I worked hard for what we have. For most of our lives, we weren’t in a position to invest in a way that let savings really multiply. That only came in recent years. I’ve always been cautious, frugal by nature, almost instinctively asking myself, Do we need this… or do we just want it? If it was a want, there was always research, discussion, and more than a little soul-searching before we made any major purchase.
I’m not sitting here worried about day-to-day bills. I’m not in panic mode. But I do feel a deep responsibility, maybe even a quiet vow, to do whatever it takes not to lose what we worked so hard to build.
Politics was never something Fran and I chased. Local, state, federal… we always felt there wasn’t much we could truly control beyond casting a ballot. Even that has felt increasingly discouraging, like too many people aren’t doing their homework before they choose. These days it feels like the same forces driving the headlines are also feeding the markets, a roller coaster powered by fear, uncertainty, and reaction.
Right now my investments are untapped, and I have more than enough on hand that could be liquid, if I needed it. Most of my investments sit in balanced funds with the remainder in an IRA. It’s a simple setup, and simplicity has always appealed to me. Still, with the world feeling like it’s leaning into instability, I can’t help but wonder how to keep my footing without letting the noise steer the ship.
Maybe that’s the real question this morning: How do I stay informed, without being consumed? How do I protect what Fran and I built, without living in fear?
For now, I’m choosing a small, steady thing I can control: another sip of coffee, the calm of jazz, and the reminder that headlines don’t get to take Fran’s place in my heart, or decide what kind of day I’m going to have.
And maybe that’s enough for this morning: A quiet promise to stay steady, even when the world refuses to be.
Nightcap Reflections
It’s 11:33 PM and I’m finally at the point of retiring for the night, probably earlier than I usually do. Today has been, for lack of a better word, a blowout.
I didn’t get a lot accomplished around the house. Very little, really. But oddly enough, the day still feels like it carried weight, because I did make a big leap forward in the one area that’s been hanging over me like a low cloud: finally getting to talk to the doctor I’ve been trying to reach for what feels like forever.
I started calling on Monday morning. No answer, straight to voicemail. I left a message saying I needed to talk to someone that day. No call back.
I tried again on Tuesday morning. Same thing: voicemail. I left another message, making it clear I really needed to speak with someone on Tuesday.
My concern wasn’t casual. It was fueled by a letter I received from the imaging company related to the CT scan I had on January 7, a letter that immediately lit up my worry meter and made everything feel urgent. The silence from the office, day after day, only made that anxiety louder.
So even if the house didn’t see much progress today, no big checklist wins, no productive burst of chores, there was still something important that happened: I kept pushing. I kept calling. I kept advocating for myself. After feeling ignored and stuck in limbo, I finally broke through and made contact.
Tonight, that counts, because sometimes the biggest accomplishment isn’t what you did with your hands, it’s what you managed to carry in your chest all day… and still keep moving forward anyway.
This morning I called the doctor’s office again, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I finally got routed to an actual receptionist. I explained my concerns plainly and told her I needed to speak with the doctor today.
What she said next hit like a slap: there were notes in my file indicating that the doctor was informed that I’d called and left messages on Monday and Tuesday, both times stressing how urgent this felt. I told her, in no uncertain terms, that this was no longer acceptable and that I was getting pretty upset with how their office had handled it. She said she would pass the message along… but couldn’t promise anything.
At around 2:00 PM, the doctor finally called.
He apologized. I told him honestly that there are serious problems in his office, either messages aren’t being received, or they’re being ignored, and that the whole situation had left me more than a little fed up. He apologized again and offered a couple of explanations that might have been legitimate, but at that point the damage was already done. The silence and the waiting had worn me thin.
He reviewed the CT scan with me and asked whether I wanted to schedule outpatient surgery. He also told me I needed to be seen by one of the doctors in the practice because he is “just” a physician assistant. That’s when the frustration boiled over again.
I reminded him that I’ve been trying to get an appointment since the beginning of October. I didn’t get one until the end of October, I followed all of their requirements, and yet I still hadn’t heard anything from anyone, until today. I made it very clear that I needed to be taken off the “wait” list, or whatever list I’ve been sitting on, and I needed to see an actual doctor as soon as possible.
He assured me he would do everything he could to expedite it. But if I’m being honest, all I can do now is wait and see, and based on the way this has gone historically, I don’t exactly have high confidence that I’ll hear from them quickly. If this drags on again, I already know it’s going to aggravate me even more.
Later tonight, after the sun went down, I settled into my recliner and caught a portion of the evening news. I flipped around to see if there was anything worth watching, and as expected… there wasn’t. So I did something different. I went down a YouTube rabbit hole watching videos about AeroGardens, how to set them up, how they work, what to expect, because Bob and his wife bought me one for my birthday, and I still haven’t started it up.
I watched a couple hours’ worth of videos. I still didn’t set the garden up, but I did make progress: I took it out of the box, put it together, and read through the instruction sheet that came with it.
Tomorrow I’m going to make it a point to set it up, get it running, see how it works, and hopefully use it to start seedlings for my outdoor garden in the spring.
In a day filled with frustration, waiting, and the feeling of being stuck in someone else’s broken system… it felt good to touch something real. Something I can actually move forward with. Even if it was just opening a box, reading instructions, and lining up a plan for tomorrow.
Some days aren’t about getting everything done. Some days are about refusing to stop.
I’m heading to bed with exhaustion, yes, but also with a small measure of relief. Not because everything is solved, but because at least now… the conversation has started.
January 22, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 8:41 AM on Thursday, January 22, and I’m working on my third cup of coffee while looking out through the back patio door. I woke up around 5:45 and, for once, made the wise call to go back to bed. I didn’t really start moving until about 7:30.
The sky is thick with clouds, but the sun keeps breaking through anyway, bright enough at times that you can’t look straight at it. It’s one of those mornings where the light feels almost determined, even if the air has other plans.
Forecasts are calling for a serious storm this weekend, last I saw, 11 to 14 inches of snow. I don’t even want to think about it, but I also know what that means: I should probably take inventory and make sure I have what I’ll need, because if that much snow shows up, I won’t be going anywhere.
I’ve got a list of things I’d like to get done today, and I’m hoping I can check off at least a few. One of the big ones is the whole house generator. It was installed last year in early February, back when Fran’s condition made power outages absolutely unacceptable. That generator is a beast, 26 kW, almost like a small car when it starts up. It runs its weekly exercise cycle to keep everything moving, and I was told it needs yearly maintenance (oil change and an overall once-over). It was a big investment, and I don’t want anything happening that could make it not worth it.
A market run is probably in my future, too, though making a list is easier said than done, because I never really know what I’ll feel like cooking on any given day. Mood and weather tend to steer the ship, and the weather has a strong hand most days.
I also want to get the AeroGarden set up, the one Bob and his wife gave me, so I can see how well it works and whether it might be a good option for starting plants for the spring garden.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m hoping to hear from the doctor today about next steps with a few health issues I could definitely live better without.
Right now it’s 33° outside, but it feels like 17°, and it’s a brisk start to the day. I don’t think we’re headed anywhere warmer, if anything, it feels like the temperature is going to slide in the wrong direction.
January 22, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 8:41 AM on Thursday, January 22, and I’m working on my third cup of coffee while looking out through the back patio door. I woke up around 5:45 and, for once, made the wise call to go back to bed. I didn’t really start moving until about 7:30.
The sky is thick with clouds, but the sun keeps breaking through anyway, bright enough at times that you can’t look straight at it. It’s one of those mornings where the light feels almost determined, even if the air has other plans.
Forecasts are calling for a serious storm this weekend, last I saw, 11 to 14 inches of snow. I don’t even want to think about it, but I also know what that means: I should probably take inventory and make sure I have what I’ll need, because if that much snow shows up, I won’t be going anywhere.
I’ve got a list of things I’d like to get done today, and I’m hoping I can check off at least a few. One of the big ones is the whole-house generator. It was installed last year in early February, back when Fran’s condition made power outages absolutely unacceptable. That generator is a beast, 26 kW, almost like a small car when it starts up. It runs its weekly exercise cycle to keep everything moving, and I was told it needs yearly maintenance (oil change and an overall once-over). It was a big investment, and I don’t want anything happening that could make it not worth it.
A market run is probably in my future, too, though making a list is easier said than done, because I never really know what I’ll feel like cooking on any given day. Mood and weather tend to steer the ship, and the weather has a strong hand most days.
I also want to get the AeroGarden set up, the one Bob and his wife gave me, so I can see how well it works, and whether it might be a good option for starting plants for the spring garden.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, I’m hoping to hear from the doctor today about next steps with a few health issues I could definitely live better without.
Right now it’s 33° outside, but it feels like 17°, and it’s a brisk start to the day. I don’t think we’re headed anywhere warmer—if anything, it feels like the temperature is going to slide in the wrong direction.
It’s 8:54 AM, and at least one issue is already moving in the right direction. I just got a call from the doctor’s office and they set me up with appointments for some testing.
To be honest, they’ve been pretty lax about getting back to me and handling things in any reasonable amount of time, so I’m still not exactly thrilled with the process. But they told me I should hear back from them again later today, and I’m holding onto that—cautiously.
In the meantime, there are still other things to address, but at least I’m off to a positive start with one item, maybe even a couple, checked off the list. In my book, since it has to do with my health and well-being, the most important thing on that list is finally underway.
It’s around 1:00 PM and I finally got a call back from the doctor’s office. They scheduled me for Monday morning, January 26th at 8:30 AM. I would have preferred the Greensburg office, since it’s considerably closer, but at this point I’ll take what I can get. The important thing is that it’s scheduled and the next step is finally in motion.
An added concern is the weather. The forecast for Sunday into Monday is calling for a significant snowfall, something in the range of 11 to 13 inches. If that actually happens, there’s no way I’m going to make it to Latrobe for an 8:30 AM appointment. So for now, I’ll have to wait and see what tomorrow’s forecast looks like, and then call the office. If it’s lining up to be a heavy snow on Monday, I’ll let them know I won’t be able to get there.
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s just after 8 AM and I woke to an impressive sunrise, one of those mornings that feels almost like a gift. The sky was alive with color and texture, the kind of scene that makes you stop and simply watch.
At the same time, it’s hard not to feel the tension underneath it all: nearly every forecast map is showing a major storm building across the country, with dangerously cold temperatures on the way and an overload of snow and ice expected over the next week.
This morning’s beauty feels like the calm before the storm, and I’m hoping, maybe even bargaining a little, that the forecasters are overreacting. But they’ve been talking about it all week, so maybe they’ve got it right this time.
Yesterday I managed to get to the local health clinic and complete the x-rays and tests the doctor requested ahead of my appointment on Monday. With the storm and heavy snow potential, I’m seriously questioning whether I’ll be able to make that appointment at all.
After the clinic I stopped at the market for only a few necessities and somehow walked out over $125 lighter, an expense that caught me off guard, though it’s hard to be shocked anymore with how things have been economically.
Today is open-ended. I don’t have firm plans, but there’s plenty to do if I need a diversion, laundry, if I decide it’s worth running a load, and a growing pile of photographs I want to sort, archive, and edit. Most of all, I’m waiting on news: my daughter has surgery scheduled this morning, so my thoughts are with her. I’ll be watching for an update and, if all goes well, I’ll likely prepare dinner for her and her family tonight so that’s one less thing they have to worry about when they get home.
As I sat at the dining room table looking through the patio doors, the sunrise kept giving. What felt almost bizarre, considering what’s coming, was the warmth. I could actually feel the heat of the sun through the glass on my skin, like standing near a fireplace. It won’t last long, but I’m taking it in while I can. If the next few days turn as harsh as predicted, this may be one of the last mornings for a while that feels like this—bright, calm, and quietly reassuring.
By early afternoon, the focus shifted to family and logistics. I called my son-in-law around 1:00 PM to check on my daughter’s surgery. They were already home and he said she was doing okay, though her face was extremely swollen, eyes nearly shut, which was unsettling to hear even if it was expected.
Around 2:00 PM, the doctor’s office called again (same practice, different office). With the weather forecast looking increasingly serious, they moved my Monday appointment from 8:30 AM to 1:20 PM. I told them plainly: the time doesn’t matter if the roads are unsafe, I’m not risking my life (or anyone else’s) just to keep an appointment. Thankfully, they were reasonable about it and said to keep it scheduled, and if I can’t make it because of weather, I just need to let them know and I won’t be charged.
In the middle of all that, I was already cooking, because that’s what I do when someone I love needs help. I prepared a batch of haluski: fried cabbage with onions, butter, and seasoning, plus a package of mini pierogies. I also made a cheesy seafood chowder with potatoes, carrots, onions, celery, and broth I’d made long ago from crustacean shells and froze in ice cube trays, today was the day it paid off. To finish it, I added steamed shrimp, lobster bits, and crab.
I packed up a whole care bundle and took it to my daughter’s house around 4:00 PM: the haluski, the chowder, three crab cakes, three rolls, sauce for crab cake sandwiches, a bag of salad, and three poached pears in wine sauce left from last Sunday’s dinner with my sister-in-law and my friend Bob and his wife. It felt good to bring food so they wouldn’t have to think about dinner after a long day.
On the way home, I made one last quick run to the market to pick up a few things before the storm arrives. Truth be told, I probably already had enough in the house to get through just fine, an abundance of almost everything, so I’m not sure how necessary it was, but it helped settle my mind.
After I got home, I put the groceries away, handled the dishes from the afternoon cooking marathon, and then sat down in my chair and fell asleep almost immediately. I didn’t wake up until about 9:00 PM. Once I finally stirred, I cleaned the coffee pot and set everything up for tomorrow morning’s coffee, small routines that make the next day feel a little more manageable.
Now it’s late, the house is quiet, and I’m ready to unwind. If I unwind the way I usually do, I’ll probably end up at the computer, trying to capture the day while it’s still fresh, because today was busy, yes, but it was also full of the things that matter: family, care, and the small comforts that help carry us through the cold.
January 24, 2026
7:06 AM
I’m standing at the patio doors, watching the sun begin to peek over the horizon, just enough light to remind me that morning still shows up, even when the forecast doesn’t feel friendly.
It’s 1°F out there, and the severe weather warnings are already doing their thing. They’re calling for 12 to 18 inches of snow in the next 48 hours, which is about as far from my liking as it gets. But the truth is, like so many other things, there isn’t much I can do about what’s coming, except try to prepare the best I can.
So my “prep plan” begins the only way it can: a few more cups of coffee, a quiet stare out into the cold, and the hope that this morning’s sunrise might be even remotely respectable. If it cooperates, maybe it’ll soften my attitude a little… or at least give me something solid and beautiful to hold onto before the storm arrives.
Evening Reflection: 11:30 PM
I’m sitting here winding down from a fairly uneventful day, listening to a little smooth jazz on YouTube.
A couple hours after getting out of bed, I made two coffee cakes, got some laundry done, and then had to head out into the frigid air to pick up a few prescriptions. When I got to the drugstore, only one of the three was ready. The other two were still being worked on, and they told me it would be 30–40 minutes, so I left and said I’d come back.
Since I was already out, I stopped at a nearby market and grabbed a few things, just in case this severe weather hangs around longer than I anticipate, then I went back to the pharmacy to finish up.
One of the prescriptions was from the urologist, a replacement for what I’m currently taking, which hasn’t been helping much. When the cashier told me that one was $175, I about had a stroke right there. She was apologetic, but I told her she had nothing to apologize for. The whole system is just messed up, and it sure feels like consumers are the ones getting taken advantage of. I paid it, reluctantly, and all I can do is hope that price tag translates into real relief.
Once I got home, I grabbed a bite to eat and talked with my daughter for a few minutes. She’s still dealing with the swelling, icing her eyes 15 minutes every hour, 45 minutes off, and repeating as long as she’s awake.
I also talked with my son earlier. He lives in North Carolina, but he told me, “I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow so we can celebrate my birthday.” The chances of that are zero to none, but it gave me a good laugh. The main thing is I need to remember to call him tomorrow and wish him a happy birthday.
The forecast is still calling for severe conditions tomorrow and Monday, with extreme cold hanging around for the next 7–10 days. If we get the 8–14 inches of snow they’re predicting, I won’t be going anywhere for a while. Snow can be lovely to look at, as long as you don’t have to go out in it. But with my doctor’s appointment scheduled for Monday afternoon, I seriously doubt I’ll be able to make it… and I’m not looking forward to the possibility of having to try.
So much for another day. I’ll add a few notes to my blog, then turn in, and try to imagine what I’m going to see when I make my way to the patio doors in the morning. I can only dream that Fran would be here to see it with me...
January 25, 2026
“January 25: A Birthday, a Blizzard Memory, and a Quiet House”
It’s 7:13 PM on Sunday, January 25, a date that’s permanently carved into my memory because it’s my son’s birthday. He was born on this day in 1977 when we were living in the Pocono Mountain region of Pennsylvania, and that year the day arrived with a terrible snowstorm and true blizzard conditions. Fran and I were lucky: a good friend nearby had just purchased a new International Scout four-wheel-drive, and he got us safely to the hospital in Port Jervis, New York.
I texted my son right at midnight to wish him a happy birthday, and we spoke again this morning around 8:30. He said it was in the 40s down in North Carolina, cloudy and overcast. I told him to consider himself fortunate because here it was also gray and overcast, and at that time we already had about six inches of snow on the ground.
The snow kept coming today, sometimes light, sometimes with squall-like intensity, and I’d guess we’re sitting around a foot now. The outlook for the next week feels downright horrendous: it’s 27° at the moment and falling through the night, with the added “bonus” of sleet possible on top of everything. Most days next week are calling for highs in the low teens, which means the snow isn’t going anywhere. That alone is depressing.
This morning, I’ll admit, it was strangely peaceful to look at the fresh snow, undisturbed, untouched, pure white. Beautiful… and bitter. That kind of beauty comes with cold that I could do without
.
I spent the late morning making about three pounds of Italian pasta and seafood salad. I thought I’d be sending some of it out the door, but the weather made that a non-starter. Then about an hour and a half ago, I started a tray of roasted hot peppers with portobello mushrooms, prosciutto, and roughly chopped San Marzano tomatoes, seasoned with garlic, basil, salt, and pepper. It’s in the oven now, and my main job for the next couple hours is to stay awake so I can stir it every 30–45 minutes.
I had hoped to make blueberry muffins today too, but it just wasn’t in the cards.
Since Fran passed, I’ve noticed something that still catches me off guard: the moment I sit down to take a break, I fall asleep, not a light doze, but sound asleep. I try to keep myself moving during the day so nighttime sleep isn’t a battle, but even with those one to three-hour naps, I sometimes wake up from dreams, and sometimes nightmares, about Fran’s passing and how completely my life has changed.
Even this morning, just standing at the window, the absence of her hit hard. I can still picture all the years she’d look out at the snow, genuinely delighted by how beautiful it was. The snow shows up, and so does the memory.
I spoke with my daughter this afternoon. She has plenty of snow around her house too, and nobody in her family is going anywhere today.
I’m scheduled for a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at 1:20 PM, but unless something major happens with road clearing overnight, which I don’t expect, I seriously doubt I’ll make it. Truthfully, I don’t see myself leaving the house for several days at minimum.
I knew months ago that winter would be the hard part: closed in, quiet, the house too still, no one to talk to, the kind of silence that doesn’t feel peaceful, just loud. I’ve been managing it as best I can, trying to counter the loneliness and the lack of daylight and the inability to get outdoors the way I used to. It hasn’t pushed me over the edge, but I’ve come close more than a few times.
My friend Bob called today to check in. He even offered to pick me up tomorrow with his four-wheel drive if I wanted to try for the appointment. I told him if the roads are bad, especially if sleet shows up, the last thing I want is for him to risk it. I’ve waited a long time already to get these appointments moving; if it takes a few more days or even weeks, so be it.
Tonight I’ll fold the laundry that’s sitting in the dryer, and I’ll probably put a few things on the blog. Other than that, it’s a quiet night in, snow outside, memories inside, and the strange weight of winter settling into the walls.
January 26, 2026
The Morning After Snowmageddon
It’s 8:20 AM on Monday morning, the day after what can only be described as snowmageddon. I’ve been up and moving since about 6:00 AM, when flurries were still drifting down.
There was never any real hope for sunrise today. The sky is that bitter slate-gray, the cloud deck hanging low and heavy, like a wet blanket over everything.
I haven’t even gone outside to measure snowfall, mainly because I can’t open the patio doors. The wind has drifted snow right up against them, and I’m not about to invite a dining room full of snow.
I turned on the TV to check the forecast and almost wish I hadn’t. It’s 11° with a “feels like” of zero, and the cold is expected to stay with us all week, highs only in the low teens. Closings and delays are crawling across the bottom of the screen like an endless ticker of bad news. Everything around me is closed, and anything that isn’t will probably be next.
I have a doctor’s appointment today at 1:20 PM, but there’s no way I’m making it. The roads are too bad, nearly impassable. Since I poured my first cup of coffee (I’m already on my fourth), I’ve been glancing out the patio doors almost constantly. In all that time, I’ve seen exactly one vehicle go by. An enormous four wheel drive pickup with about 2 feet of ground clearance beneath it.
I’m not sure what’s on my agenda today. But whatever it is, it’ll happen in a house that feels very quiet—lonely, and disturbingly serene.
I have no recent memory of a 24-hour snowfall like this, not like this. The deck is swallowed whole, the rails turned into white lines on a white world, and the only sound is the hush that follows a storm when winter seems to hold its breath.
They say this kind of event comes once every fifteen years. That’s a sobering number.
Part of me thinks, I won’t be here for the next one… and then a smaller voice answers, maybe you will. Either way, today is here, and it’s a day to witness.
It’s 10:10 PM and I’m sitting in the recliner with the TV on in the background, more noise than entertainment. I’ve been half listening, half watching, and sometimes doing neither… just letting it fill the quiet.
This afternoon I made a dozen blueberry muffins using a new recipe, and they turned out quite good. They’re still a typical blueberry muffin, but the lemon zest and lemon juice gave them a little brightness, and the Greek yogurt along with vegetable oil kept them incredibly moist.
At some point during the day I glanced out the front living room window and noticed my driveway had been cleared. I have no idea when it happened or who did it. Later I saw my neighbor across the street running his snowblower and thought maybe it was him, but with the temperature so frigid, I wasn’t about to go outside and play detective.
Around 5:00 PM I made myself something to eat, and not long after that my daughter called to tell me my son-in-law was on his way over to shovel the driveway and clear the porches. He arrived about a half hour later and got right to work. Before long I could hear him out front, and later I could see him out back through the patio doors.
I opened the door to tell him I wanted him to stop in before he left because I had things to send home, muffins, cookies, seafood pasta salad, roasted pepper dip, and a few items for his parents and grandmother, too. That’s when I realized my grandson was with him. I hadn’t even known he was here.
By about 8:00 PM I told them they’d done enough. No reason to be out in that cold any longer. I insisted they come in for tea and hot chocolate with a blueberry muffin chaser. My grandson ended up eating two muffins on the spot, and I’m pretty sure he would’ve kept going if he hadn’t known I was sending three home for him and his mom and dad.
My friend Bob called around 7:30 just to check on me. We talked for a bit, and he asked about the doctor’s appointment. I told him there was no way I was driving to Latrobe in these conditions, especially not with snow and ice on the roads. I also told him I’ve got another appointment scheduled for this coming Friday at the Greensburg office instead, which will be easier since it’s closer.
I keep thinking how fortunate I am to have a friend like Bob, someone who checks in regularly, not because he has to, but because he’s simply that kind of person. I try to tell him how much I appreciate it, but I doubt he’ll ever fully know.
Tonight the TV has been on for a couple hours. Sometimes I’m listening but not watching, sometimes watching but not listening, just trying to soften the solitude. I’ve drifted in and out of sleep a few times, but never for long.
Eleven o’clock. The day is down to its last sip of coffee and the house has settled into that late-night stillness, and there it is, Fran’s corner of light on the china cabinet. Two candles flickering like a heartbeat you can see. Flowers holding color in the dark, and that heart above it, quietly insisting: “Those we love don’t go away… they walk beside us everyday.” Then it adds what I already know but still need to hear: “Unseen, unheard, but always near… still loved, still missed, and very dear.”
Tonight it feels like a comfort… and a hurt… all at the same time.
January 27, 2026
This morning surprised me.
At 7:50 AM, I looked toward the horizon and, against all expectations, there it was: the sun, doing its best to pull a new day up and over the edge of winter. The light was intense, the kind that makes you pause mid-step and just stare. Above it, only patchy whispers of cloud, pale and tangerine, brushed with little dashes of pink, set against a deep, steady blue.
It wasn’t what I expected to see today, but I’ll gladly accept it. Stepping near the door was an eye-opener. The actual temperature is 3°, but it feels like -13°. Bitter doesn’t quite cover it. The high is supposed to reach 17°—maybe we’ll see.
Still, for a few minutes, the sky put on a show that felt like a small gift: proof that even in the hardest cold, the day arrives anyway… and sometimes it arrives beautifully.
By 8 AM, the sun wasn’t just up—it was working its magic.
It rose with such intensity it felt almost unreal, and as it climbed it moved toward the place I’ve come to think of as the Portal, those two tall locust trees standing like quiet sentries behind the house. Even in the middle of winter, with bare branches and cold air that bites, I could see it again: Fran’s image, centered between the trees near the canopy.
It wasn’t a face the way a photograph is a face. It was more like a presence, an outline made of light and memory and the way my heart recognizes what my eyes can’t fully explain.
And it felt like she was saying: “Here. I have a present for you today. Enjoy it. Savor it. Do what you can to make the best of it.”
I tried taking a few more photos as the sun continued to rise, but it was so bright it was almost painful to look at, even through the camera. Still, I’m glad I caught what I could, because some mornings aren’t meant to be explained. They’re meant to be received.
January 28, 2026
It’s 5:47 PM on Wednesday, January 28, and winter is doing what winter does best — making sure you don’t forget who’s in charge. Eight degrees outside. Feels like two. The kind of cold that doesn’t just live outdoors, but tries to follow you in.
I got out of bed around 5:45 this morning and let coffee do the heavy lifting for a while. Cup after cup, waiting for something, anything, from the sky. When the sun finally showed up, it was a quiet debut. No big performance, no painted clouds, just a pale presence that made me think, Well… at least you came.
Later, around 9:00, I decided toast sounded good, something simple, something easy, only to find the loaf in the bread drawer had turned into a stubborn brick. Rock hard. Past its prime. But instead of tossing it, I did what I’ve learned matters more with time: I tried to rescue it.
So I made baked French toast.
Five eggs. About three quarters cups of milk. Time to soak and soften what had become too tough on its own. I gave it a little pecan praline topping, slid it into the oven for about an hour, and when it came out it wasn’t just food, it was proof that even something hardened by time can still become comforting with the right kind of attention. Breakfast for today… and enough left over to make tomorrow and possibly the next day feel a little easier, too.
In between, I spent a while with the GoPro, fiddling and learning and trying not to get annoyed. I finally got it working, which felt like one of those small wins you don’t celebrate loudly, but you do notice. In a day like this, small wins count.
Around 1:00 the pharmacy called and offered the RSV and shingles vaccines. I didn’t want to go out into that cold, but I went anyway. Appointment at 4:00, there by 3:45, paperwork, quick and done. Back home by about 4:45, the cold left outside where it belongs.
Dinner was simple, soup and a sandwich, the kind of meal that doesn’t ask much of you when you’re already running on low. Now the last task of the day is waiting: remaking the bed. I stripped it this morning, washed and dried the linens and comforter, and now I have to put it back together before I crawl in.
And sitting off to the side of the evening is a small practical worry dressed up as an idea: those strawberries I bought a couple days ago. I don’t want them to go to waste. Maybe, if the bed gets made and I’ve still got something left in me, a strawberry cheese danish will happen.
We’ll see.
January 29, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections — 5:57 AM
Coffee in hand, orange juice on the side, small luxuries, lately. I still wince at the price, but I’m starting to understand the quiet math of it: t here’s only so much “later” to bargain with. Sometimes you buy the juice.
It’s zero degrees outside, bitter cold, the kind that makes the world feel paused. But the forecast hints at sun and partial clouds, which means there’s hope for a sunrise that remembers how to speak.
I’ve got strawberries waiting downstairs, and I’m leaning toward a strawberry cheese Danish, something warm, sweet, and homemade. A small act of comfort. A way to say: not today, cold.
Sleep took its time last night, and my mind left me a strange postcard:
a classroom, an assignment, a challenge to draw what’s real and add what isn’t.
I had the perfect idea and the perfect subject, until they were suddenly gone, and everyone was gone, and I was left behind holding nothing but hesitation.
Maybe it means something. Maybe it doesn’t.But it landed with that familiar feeling: don’t wait too long to begin.
About that dream (personal gentle take, no heavy psychoanalysis)
If I were to make a simple read on it, it could be as plain as this:
“Draw what I see + add what isn’t there” → my life has both now: the real, everyday routine… and the invisible stuff I carry (memory, longing, grief, hope).
Everyone finishing and leaving → that anxious “I’m behind / I missed my chance” feeling that sometimes shows up when I'm tired or when life has changed too fast.
I left holding hesitation → not a warning, just a nudge: start anyway, even if it’s messy.
Since I got such an early start this morning by 9:00 AM I had the strawberries cooked down and chilling in the refrigerator as well as the cream cheese filling prepped And into the refrigerator to chill as well
After allowing both fillings to chill for about an hour I started building the Danish pastries, two of them, since there were two full sheets of puff pastry in the package, and I really didn't want to have to store one of them.
After each of the pastries was assembled, on seperate sheets of parchment paper, I popped them into the 400 degree oven for about 30 minutes and viola, out came these two beauties:
Shortly after removing the pastries from the oven, and knowing very well that I should allow them to rest for at least a half an hour, I was getting a bit hungry. So I cut myself a couple of slices of baked french toast, from yesterday's breakfast leftovers, and topped it with some of the leftover strawberries from todays culinary endeavor.
At around 11:30 AM after finishing all the dishes I used this morning I revisited setting up the Gopro camera that my daughter and son-in-law had got me for Christmas. When I started I didn't have Great Expectations because I've been working on this for quite a while without much luck on getting to where I needed to be but today I think I seem to have everything working at least from a beginner's point of view. For whatever reason, while trying to set the camera previously with my iPhone, I kept running into roadblocks, getting notices that the camera was not available, that it wasn't connecting to the network and numerous other issues
This morning in lieu of using my iPhone and/or my desktop computer I used my iPad, and miraculously everything started coming together. The only problem I'm facing right now is that I keep getting a notification that the micro SD card is currently full and there's insufficient room to record anything new. This issue is very confusing to me because I have basically deleted everything on the SD card on a couple of occasions, and I'm not seeing anything on it when I open it on my computer or my iPad.
Oh well no one said this would be easy, it seems these days nothing is...
It's currently 2:57 PM And now that I'm growing a bit weary working with this camera I've been thinking about some different types of I could in the future for preparing muffins.
I can treat my muffin base like a “blank canvas” and swap flavors without messing up the crumb. Consider the following as potential fillings + topping combos that play nicely with the yogurt/lemon style batter.
Fruit swaps that behave like blueberries
Use 2 cups fruit (fresh or frozen; don’t thaw frozen). Toss with 1 Tbsp flour + 1 tsp sugar like I did with yesterdays blueberries.
Raspberry–Lemon (bright, bakery vibe)
Blackberry–Lemon (a little deeper, “jammy” pockets)
Mixed berry (easy win)
Cherry–Vanilla (frozen cherries chopped; add ¼ tsp almond extract)
Cranberry–Orange (swap lemon zest for orange; add a pinch of cloves)
Strawberry–Lemon (dice small; frozen works better than fresh for pockets)
Additional options might also include:
Cinnamon swirl (classic coffee-cake muffin)
This one is perfect with my crunchy streusel.
Optional: add ½ cup chopped toasted pecans to the swirl for a “sticky bun” feel.
Streusel “center pocket” (hidden crumble)
Make a dry crumble filling that doesn’t melt into goo.
Crumble filling:
1/4 cup flour
1/4 cup brown sugar
2 Tbsp cold butter, rubbed in
1/2 tsp cinnamon
Optional: 2 Tbsp oats
Layer the same way as above (batter → crumble → batter). Top with my regular streusel.
Cheesecake-style center (your “bakery stuffed” muffin)
This gives that pastry-shop surprise.
Cream cheese center:
Spoon 1 Tbsp into the center of each muffin after filling cups halfway, then cover with batter. Streusel on top.
Great pairings:
Lemon–Blueberry + cheesecake
Raspberry + cheesecake
Cherry + cheesecake
Jam or curd core (super easy)
Use 1–2 tsp thick jam, preserves, lemon curd, or orange marmalade per muffin.
Freeze little dollops on parchment first for the cleanest “filled” center.
Pairs:
Blueberry + lemon curd
Raspberry jam + vanilla batter
Apricot preserves + almond extract
Apple pie muffins (fruit + spice)
Swap lemon for cinnamon warmth.
Fruit: 1½ cups peeled small-diced apples (or 1 cup apples + ½ cup raisins)
Add: 1½ tsp cinnamon + pinch nutmeg
Optional: Top with streusel + coarse sugar.
Chocolate options (because why not)
Chocolate can make them feel “dessert-y” while keeping the crumb.
White chocolate + raspberry (½–¾ cup chips)
Dark chocolate + cherry
Chocolate chunk + orange zest
Tip: keep chocolate to ¾ cup max so it doesn’t weigh down the rise.
Currently thinking my top 3 “change it up” picks will most likely be:
Cinnamon swirl + streusel top (coffee-cake muffin energy)
Strawberry–Lemon with a jam/curd core (Allow's me the opportunity to use up whats left of todays experiment)
Cherry–Vanilla with almond hint + streusel (I will have to make a market run to pick up some frozen cherries, therefore, I'm not so sure about this one. By the time I go out and return home the cherries will no longer be frozen but I most likely will)
Hmmmmm... Who knows, perhaps later today may be close enough to the future...
January 30, 2026
A Few Calls, A Cold Morning, And A Lot On My Mind 7:44 AM
I crawled out of bed for the second time this morning and, much to my surprise, the sun has decided to make an appearance. Outside it’s -6°—the kind of cold that doesn’t feel “brisk,” it feels unforgiving. I’m thankful I don’t have to be outdoors for any reason right now.
I managed to take one photograph of the sunrise, but I took it from inside the house through the patio doors.
I wasn’t about to step outside just to prove a point. The sky is completely cloudless at the moment, and while it’s good to see the sun, a clear sky in weather like this has a way of letting whatever warmth reaches the ground escape right back up again… and the temperature drops even lower than it already is.
Later today, at 3:30 PM, I finally have an appointment with the urologist—the doctor himself—after trying to get in since last October. I’ve needed this appointment for a long time, but it feels like a double-edged sword. On one hand, I’m relieved to finally be seen. On the other, I’m carrying that nagging fear that they’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear. From everything I’ve gathered, I suspect I’m dealing with some prostate issues, which isn’t uncommon for someone my age… but common doesn’t automatically make it easy. I’m hoping today brings clarity, and more than anything, some relief from the daily aggravation.
Last night my friend Bob called to check in and see how I was doing. While we were talking, I asked if he would be home today because I wanted to drop off some pastries, blueberry muffins and a couple of other things. Since my appointment is right near where he lives, I thought today would be a good chance to make the delivery and maybe sit and talk for awhile.
Bob said he’d love the company, but with the recent heavy snowfall there isn’t much parking near his house. So we switched plans, he’s going to stop by my place on Saturday to pick up what I’ve prepared for him and his wife.
My sister-in-law also called yesterday, several times, asking if I wanted to go out to dinner this weekend for my birthday. I told her it was totally unnecessary. At this point, birthdays feel like just another day to me, not something I’m particularly interested in celebrating. She insisted anyway, and we finally agreed to go to brunch on Sunday. She also suggested I invite my daughter, my son-in-law, and my grandson to come along. I told her I wasn’t sure what plans they might already have, but I’d certainly run it by them, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see how that all pans out.
Aside from the apprehension I’m carrying about today’s appointment, I’m not really sure what else will be going on. More than likely, I’ll keep working on the GoPro, trying to get it fully operational and to the point where I can reliably retrieve and edit photos and video without it turning into a whole production.
For now, it’s a bitter cold morning, a clear sky, and a day with a lot riding on it.
My doctors appointment today was scheduled for 3:30, but I waited about 15 minutes before they brought me back to an exam room. A nurse came in, asked the usual questions, and told me the doctor would be in soon.
When the doctor finally walked in, she was very pleasant, easy to talk to, and that helped more than I expected. As we got into my symptoms and what I’ve been experiencing, she said the problem appears to be bladder-related. She called it a bladder diverticulum, (a small pouch/outpouching in the bladder wall).
The Appointment, The Answers, And More Waiting
After the doctor came in and we started talking through everything, she explained what a bladder diverticulum is, and then delivered the part I wasn’t hoping to hear: she said it’s not really treatable in any simple, straightforward way.
She did mention a few other options, but they weren’t things I felt I could dealwith at this juncture, and honestly, I didn’t want to sign up for more pain and aggravation if it wasn’t likely to improve my day-to-day life. So we kept talking and trying to sort out what made sense and what didn’t.
She also told me I have several kidney stones. She said they could be removed, but since they aren’t currently bothering me, she didn’t really see a strong reason to go after them right now.
Ultimately, we agreed that the next step is for me to see a specialist at UPMC in Pittsburgh to discuss a surgical procedure, basically opening things up in the bladder area to address the problem. But she was honest with me: there are no guarantees that it would fix what I’m dealing with.
So here I sit. Not a whole lot has changed, except that now I have to make a decision at some point, just not today. I’m not going to decide anything until I speak with the specialist in Pittsburgh. The doctor’s office said they’ll handle the referral and let me know when the appointment is scheduled, so for now I’m in that familiar place again… waiting.
When I got home, my phone started ringing, my daughter, my son, my sister-in-law, and then Bob. Everyone checking in, wanting to know how the appointment went and what happens next. I told them the truth: I’ll be seeing a specialist at UPMC, but I don’t know when yet because the doctors office is coordinating it and will contact me.
For now, I’m choosing to treat this as one more step in a longer process. I finally have a name for what’s going on, and that matters, even if it doesn’t come with an easy fix. The next real move is the specialist at UPMC, and until I hear what they have to say, there’s no point in trying to solve the entire puzzle in my head.
So I’ll wait, I’ll listen, and I’ll take it one decision at a time. That’s the only way I know how to do it without letting the worry run the whole show.
I only wish Fran were here... On more occasions than I can remember, she had the ability to see the positive side of things and to also convince me that things would get better, even if we both knew they wouldn't. I'll finally turn into bed now with the memory of her telling me:
"Your going to miss me when I'm gone."
January 31, 2026
Happy Birthday to me...
Saturday, 6:55 AM
The coffee is just getting started, and so am I.
It’s 6:55 AM and I noticed something I didn’t expect: a little more light on the horizon than feels fair for this hour, like the morning is quietly trying to offer something, even in the middle of all this cold.
And it is cold. -11°, with a high of 16°. The kind of cold that doesn’t just sting your face, it freezes the world in place. I found that out when the patio door screen wouldn’t budge. Frozen solid in the tracks. I pushed and nearly bent it in half. Another small repair for later, another reminder that winter always collects its toll.
I don’t have a big plan for the day, but I do have one certainty: chicken soup. Yesterday, on the way home from the doctor, I grabbed a rotisserie chicken. Some of it became dinner last night. The rest becomes the base today, something warm that can simmer while I try to sort out the rest of life.
My daughter wants to come by because it’s my birthday. Bob mentioned he might stop in too. No schedule, no pressure, just the simple possibility of company, and that feels like a gift all by itself, especially when the weather makes you think twice about every mile.
And then there’s the pattern. The waiting pattern. It’s Saturday, so I don’t expect to hear from the doctor until Monday at the earliest, and even that feels uncertain when I look at it through the lens of experience.
So I do what I can do: I make coffee. I watch for light. I make soup, and I let the rest wait its turn.
Birthday Saturday
By the end of today, I learned something: if you make a big pot of soup, you might not end up with much soup.
This morning my brother-in-law stopped by to wish me happy birthday. We had coffee and a piece of pastry, and when he left I sent him home with a couple blueberry muffins and a piece of the strawberry cream cheese danish for his wife and his sister-in-law.
Not long after, my friend Bob called. He and his wife sang happy birthday to me over the phone. It was really nice of them… and I couldn’t help myself, I told them if they were still working, it would be in their best interest to keep their day jobs.
Shortly after my brother-in-law leaving I got phone calls from all of my grandchildren, my daughter, my daughter-in-law and a couple of friends. In as much as I really don't see the need to celebrate birthdays, at least when you reach my age, it's always nice to be acknowledged.
Around lunchtime, Bob came over with stuffed peppers, a birthday card, and a small cheesecake, from the Italian market that he passes on his way to my house. We sat down to a bowl of chicken soup and sandwiches made with my homemade bread, Black Forest ham, some of that pepper spread I’ve been making, and shredded mozzarella melted on top.
Just as we were finishing up, I heard commotion in the living room. It was my grandson and his girlfriend. He told me his car broke down nearby on the highway and he’d just left his dad with the tow truck to get it evaluated. They sat for a bit and had something to eat, and then my son-in-law called needing a ride from a mechanic shop close by. My grandson went to get him and they were back about fifteen minutes later.
My son-in-law came in frozen and accepted a bowl of soup immediately, said anything warm would help. Before long, they all headed back out into the cold.
I made that big pot of soup this morning thinking it would last for days. Instead, between everyone coming and going, about six big bowls were eaten and by the time the afternoon settled there was only about a quart left. I honestly couldn’t believe how much got consumed, and I was delighted. On a day as cold as today, even hot water would’ve tasted good, but this soup certainly did the job.
Before everyone left, I sent food home with them too. My grandson’s girlfriend took a quart because the last time I made soup she raved about it, and wanted to know what restaurant it came from. Bob left with another quart, plus a loaf of homemade bread, blueberry muffins, strawberry cream cheese danish, and some pepper spread.
By 5:30 the house was quiet again. I cleaned up and sat down, and that was the mistake, because the next thing I knew I was waking up hours later, chilled even with the thermostat at 73°. A long day, a good day, and a tired ending.
But I’ll tell you this: for a birthday in the middle of a bitter winter, my house was warm where it counts.
And when the house finally went quiet again, I couldn’t help thinking how much Fran would’ve loved seeing the table full, the soup disappearing, and everyone leaving with something in their hands.
Fran always understood that food is love. Today felt like that, warmth in a pot, people in the house, and a little piece of her way of living still showing up. I wish she could’ve been with us, soup, bread, laughter, and a house that didn’t feel so empty for a while. I know she would’ve smiled.
The day ended the way it ended, quiet, tired, and a little lonely but I felt Fran close in the only way I know how: through the cooking, the sharing, and the people she always cared about.
More to come...
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