On Grief and Grieving July 2026

July 1, 2026

5:19 AM

I awoke around 4:30 this morning but lingered in bed until five. As soon as I slid open the patio door, it felt less like stepping into a summer morning and more like opening the door to an indoor pool, a wave of warm, humid air rolled into the house as if someone had switched on a giant sauna.

At 5:19 the thermometer already read 76 degrees, with humidity hovering at 88 percent. A gentle southwest breeze stirred the treetops at only four miles per hour, but it did little to relieve the heavy, muggy air. The eastern sky glowed with soft shades of blue as dawn quietly approached, the trees standing in silhouette against the growing light.

It was a peaceful beginning to the day, though one that carried an unmistakable promise: before long, this quiet summer morning would surrender to another day of oppressive July heat.

5:41 AM

By now, the eastern sky had brightened enough for the clouds to finally reveal themselves. What had been little more than a soft glow twenty minutes earlier was beginning to take shape, the horizon slowly filling with layers of gray and blue.

I abandoned my position at the patio table and stepped out onto the deck to watch the morning continue its quiet arrival. At first, the air felt almost motionless, warm, damp, and heavy enough that it reminded me once again of stepping into a sauna. Eventually a light breeze found its way across the hillside, enough to stir the leaves and carry away just enough of the moisture to make sitting outside a bit more pleasant.

I've never been fond of temperature extremes. I don't long for cold mornings, only ones that are cool enough to feel refreshing. There's something invigorating about taking that first breath of crisp morning air that simply isn't there when the thermometer already reads well into the seventies before sunrise.

Still, the weather pays little attention to personal preference. It will be what it will be. Like so many other things in life, it's beyond my control. Rather than complain about what I can't change, I'm reminded once again to appreciate what I do have, a comfortable chair on the deck, a peaceful view, another sunrise to witness, and another day waiting quietly to unfold.

5:56 AM

As my morning watch continued, so did the slow unveiling of another summer day. The clouds had become more defined, drifting across the eastern sky as a gentle breeze finally began stirring the trees. The garden below was now fully visible, and the hillside seemed to awaken with the growing light.

Yet my thoughts weren't entirely on the beauty unfolding before me.

I found myself reflecting on a conversation with my niece last evening regarding my sister-in-law's condition. The news wasn't encouraging. Doctors have told the family that she will likely remain dependent upon a ventilator for whatever time she has left. Discussions have begun about whether she should receive palliative care at home or be transferred to hospice, though no final decision has yet been made.

Hearing those words stirred memories I would never have chosen to revisit.

Almost one year ago, as July 10 approached, I found myself standing beside Fran while facing many of the same heartbreaking realities. I remember the uncertainty, the difficult conversations, the hope that somehow things might change despite knowing deep down what the outcome was likely to be.

Because I've walked that road, my heart aches for my nieces and nephew. I know the emotional burden they're carrying and the impossible decisions they're being asked to make.

As troubling as it all is, I've also come to recognize a difficult truth. There are moments in life when love can accompany someone through the journey but cannot change its destination. As painful as that realization may be, these circumstances, like the weather before me, remain beyond my control.

All I can do is offer my support, and the understanding that comes from having walked a similar path.

6:09 AM

At last, the sun climbed above the horizon.

Its rays had not yet reached the hillside directly, but they found the clouds first, painting them with soft shades of peach, coral, and gold against an otherwise gentle blue sky. It was one of those quiet moments when the morning seems to pause, allowing the beauty to linger just long enough to be appreciated before another warm July day takes over.

As I sat on the deck, I couldn't help but notice how quickly the landscape had changed in less than an hour. What had begun as little more than dark silhouettes had gradually become trees, clouds, and finally the garden below, all revealed one layer at a time by the rising sun.

Nature has a remarkable way of reminding me that every day unfolds gradually. Nothing happens all at once. Darkness gives way to light, shadows surrender to detail, and colors emerge where only minutes before there seemed to be none.

The worries I carried with me this morning haven't vanished. My thoughts remain with my sister-in-law and with my nieces and nephew as they face decisions no family ever wants to make. Those concerns continue to weigh heavily on my heart.

Yet this sunrise offered a quiet reminder that even on mornings filled with uncertainty, beauty still finds a way to appear. It doesn't erase life's difficulties, nor does it pretend they don't exist. Instead, it gently coexists beside them, inviting us to pause, breathe, and remember that hope often arrives as quietly as the first rays of sunlight touching the clouds.

6:22 AM

As I lifted my gaze from the eastern horizon to the sky directly overhead, I found myself settling into one of those rare moments when everything seemed to fall quietly into place.

The clouds drifted lazily across a deepening blue sky, their edges still brushed with the warm colors of the rising sun. Birds greeted the morning with songs that seemed to come from every direction. My coffee rested nearby, still warm, while smooth jazz drifted softly from the kitchen through the open patio door.

There was nothing spectacular happening.

Nothing dramatic.

Just an ordinary summer morning unfolding exactly as it should.

And somehow, it felt exactly right.

The remarkable thing is that none of life's problems had suddenly disappeared. My thoughts remained with my sister-in-law and the difficult days facing her family. The heat and humidity were already promising another uncomfortable July afternoon. The concerns that accompany everyday life were still there, quietly waiting in the background.

Yet for these few moments, they no longer occupied center stage.

Instead, they stepped aside just enough to allow me to appreciate the simple blessings that surrounded me, a beautiful sky, birds welcoming a new day, a fresh cup of coffee, familiar music, and the privilege of witnessing another sunrise.

Perhaps that's one of life's greatest lessons.

Peace doesn't always arrive after our burdens have been lifted.

Sometimes it arrives while we're still carrying them.

6:31 AM

By 6:31, the sun had finally revealed itself.

Not as a brilliant, unobstructed disc climbing above the horizon, but as a warm glow finding its way through a small opening in the branches of the pine tree standing just northeast of my position on the deck.

The effect was surprisingly gentle. The pine needles softened the sunlight, turning what might have been a harsh glare into a warm amber beacon that shimmered through the branches. Even the white deck railing beside me seemed to awaken as it caught the first direct rays of the morning.

It reminded me that beauty doesn't always announce itself in dramatic fashion.

Sometimes it arrives quietly, filtered through the ordinary things we see every day.

As I sat there with my coffee, listening to the birds and the smooth jazz drifting from the kitchen, I realized this morning had taken me on its own little journey. It began in darkness and heavy humidity, wandered through memories and concerns for my sister-in-law and her family, then slowly unfolded into a sunrise filled with soft colors, gentle breezes, and quiet moments of gratitude.

The worries are still there.

They haven't disappeared with the rising sun.

But neither has the beauty.

Perhaps that's what each new morning quietly teaches me. We don't have to choose between acknowledging life's burdens and appreciating its blessings. Both can exist together.

The challenge is simply remembering to look for the light, even when it reaches us through the branches of a pine tree.

6:38 AM

As the morning continued to unfold, the sun climbed a little higher above the horizon, quietly announcing its presence in a different way.

Rather than watching the sky, I found myself noticing the first lengthening shadows stretching across the deck and through the trees. Even the coffee cup resting on the table in front of me had become part of the morning's changing light, casting its own small shadow across the tabletop.

It reminded me that the rising sun doesn't simply brighten the world. It reveals it.

The trees, the railing, the table, my familiar coffee cup, all of them looked a little different than they had just an hour earlier. Nothing had moved, yet everything had changed because of the light.

Perhaps life works much the same way.

Our circumstances don't always change overnight. The concerns we carry often remain exactly where we left them. Yet sometimes a different perspective, a quiet moment of reflection, or the simple beauty of a new day can cast enough light on those circumstances that we begin to see them differently.

This morning began with heavy air, difficult thoughts, and memories that weighed on my heart.

It ends with birdsong, smooth jazz, a warm cup of coffee, and sunlight filtering through the trees.

The problems are still there. But so is the light.

6:45 AM

As the sun continues its steady journey across the morning sky, the day now seems to be officially underway. I suppose it's time for me to make my way down to the garden and provide the plants with a fit of morning nourishment. It's not that they're desperately in need of water at this very moment, but experience has taught me that it's far better to tend to them now than to wait until later in the day.

Before long, the temperature will climb, the humidity will become even more oppressive, and what is now an enjoyable morning stroll through the garden will gradually become another chore to be endured rather than a pleasure to be savored. Gardeining has always rewarded those who arrive early. The air, despite its warmth, is still relatively quiet.

The birds remain busy among the trees, the plants seem almost to welcome the first light of day, and there is a certain satisfaction in knowing that, before the heat settles in, I've already done something worthwhile. So, with coffee nearly finished, and another beautiful sunrise now behind me, it's time to leave my perch on the deck and head down the hill. The morning watch has come to an end, and another day's work quietly begins.

At this juncture, it feels like a fitting transition from observer to caretaker, a role I've embraced not only in my garden, but also in the way I care for my family, my memories of Fran, and the life I've continued to cultivate one sunrise at a time.

7:43 AM

I just returned from the garden after giving everything a long, thorough soaking.

Interestingly enough, the temperature down there felt noticeably cooler than it had on the deck, and the breeze seemed a bit more pronounced as well. Whether it was simply the lower elevation or the shelter provided by the surrounding trees, it made working in the garden surprisingly comfortable despite the warm start to the day.

Since the conditions were so pleasant, I decided it would be a shame not to take advantage of them. What began as a simple watering session soon turned into an opportunity to plant another row of lettuce and spinach. After all, fresh greens have become a regular part of my meals this summer, and another planting now should provide another harvest a few weeks down the road.

As I worked my way through the rows, I couldn't help but admire how well everything is progressing. The cucumbers continue producing at an impressive pace,

tomatoes are sizing up nicely,

and the peppers seem happier with each passing day.

Morning dew still clung to many of the leaves and fruit, sparkling in the early sunlight while the plants soaked up the fresh drink I'd just given them.

It's satisfying to watch the garden respond to the attention it's been receiving.

Now that the watering and planting are behind me, I've returned to my familiar chair on the deck. Another cup of coffee seems to be in order before continuing my morning watch. Later, I'll make my way around to the front of the house to water the flower beds, tend to the plants along the north side, and check on those still growing in the little greenhouse on the southern side of the house.

The day is gradually shifting from quiet observation to purposeful work, and I find myself looking forward to it.

9:46 AM

I'm happy to report that, to the best of my knowledge, just about all of my morning chores have now been completed.

The garden has been watered, another planting of lettuce and spinach is in the ground, the flowers around the front and north side of the house have had their morning drink, and the remaining plants in the little greenhouse have been tended as well.

The morning has changed considerably since I first stepped onto the deck before sunrise.

The gentle breeze that made the early hours so enjoyable has faded away, leaving behind warm, still air. As the sun continues its climb higher into the sky, both the temperature and humidity seem determined to climb with it. Even sitting beneath the umbrella has become noticeably less comfortable, and I doubt I'll remain out here much longer before retreating to the coolness of the house.

One unexpected visitor did provide a bit of morning entertainment.

A young squirrel appeared near the large oak tree at the back of the property, busily foraging through the grass.

After a few minutes, he made his way toward the road. Much to my amusement, he paused at the edge as though taking a careful look in both directions before committing himself to the crossing. Satisfied that all was well, he scampered across without the slightest hint of concern and disappeared into the brush on the opposite side.

Whether he actually looked both ways or whether my imagination helped fill in the story hardly matters.

For a few moments, he reminded me that every creature seems to have its own morning routine.

Mine simply happens to include coffee, gardening, photography, and a comfortable chair on the deck.

Late Morning

Yesterday I mentioned that I intended to experiment with spraying part of the driveway to combat the relentless weed growth that seems determined to reclaim every patch of gravel.

I mixed the 30% horticultural vinegar with water, probably somewhere around a fifty-fifty ratio, and gave the weeds a thorough soaking.

I have to admit, the results were nothing short of impressive.

Within a day, it became obvious where I'd sprayed and where I hadn't. The treated weeds had already begun turning brown and collapsing, while the untreated areas remained stubbornly green.

Sometimes it's nice when an experiment actually works.

If tomorrow morning is calm and the wind cooperates, I think I'll finish the remainder of the driveway and perhaps give today's treated areas one light follow-up application. At the very least, I've found another tool that seems capable of keeping the driveway looking a bit more presentable without spending hours pulling weeds by hand.

8:50 PM 

After a late dinner, I wandered back out onto the deck and spent about an hour enjoying the quiet of another summer evening. The temperature remained quite warm, and the humidity never dropped as much as I had hoped, but by comparison to this afternoon, it was certainly tolerable.

The dramatic clouds that filled the sky earlier in the day had all but disappeared, leaving behind a nearly cloudless expanse of soft blue as daylight slowly began to fade. It was one of those peaceful evenings where nothing much happened, and somehow, that was enough.

I'll probably make my way downstairs now and write a few brief blog entries before calling it a day. There isn't a long list of accomplishments to record, but that's perfectly all right. Today wasn't about checking items off a list. It was about slowing down, staying out of the oppressive heat, and allowing myself some much-needed rest.

Every day doesn't have to be productive to be worthwhile. Sometimes a quiet day is exactly what we need before taking on whatever tomorrow has in store.

July 2, 2026

5:49 AM

I opened the patio door this morning already knowing what awaited me. The thermometer read 74°, but the real story was the humidity, 91 percent. The air felt thick and heavy, wrapping itself around everything before sunrise had even begun.

From the doorway, the landscape looked calm and inviting, yet stepping outside was another matter entirely. The trees stood motionless beneath a pale morning sky, and the distant hills disappeared into a veil of summer haze. For now, the deck will have to wait. There will be coffee indoors this morning, while I hope for a breeze that may, or may not, arrive later in the day.

I have to admit, despite the uncomfortable conditions, my iPhone did a beautiful job with this panorama. The gradual transition from the darker foreground trees to the soft, luminous eastern horizon gives the scene remarkable depth and creates a quiet mood that suits the beginning of a humid July morning.

At 6:27 this morning, I finally made my way out to the deck with Mr. Squeegee in one hand and a freshly brewed cup of coffee in the other. About an hour earlier, while standing at the patio doors watching the eastern horizon, I caught sight of a doe leading three spotted fawns along the edge of the woods. Instinct immediately took over as I grabbed my phone and began snapping photographs. I thought I had witnessed the highlight of the morning, but nature wasn't finished with me yet.

The young deer lingered long enough to offer several wonderful opportunities for photographs, one curious fawn even stopping beneath the trees near the garden to study me as intently as I was studying it.

Just when I thought the show had ended, my little squirrel buddy darted onto the stage, scampering across the road as though determined not to be outdone.

Some mornings, all you expect is a cup of coffee and a quiet sunrise. Every once in a while, though, Mother Nature decides to put on a performance that reminds you just how fortunate you are to have a front-row seat.

7:43 AM

As the sun continues its upward climb, I remain perched at my usual table on the deck, continuing what has already become a memorable morning watch.

With each passing minute, the increasing sunlight seems to be drying the air ever so slightly, making the heat and humidity a bit more tolerable than when I first stepped outside. After welcoming so many unexpected visitors already this morning, the doe, her three spotted fawns, and even my little squirrel friend, I decided it was time for a bit of sustenance before heading inside to prepare breakfast.

A cup of coffee and a granola bar seemed perfectly adequate while I kept one eye on the tree line and the other on the open lawn, just in case Mother Nature wasn't quite finished entertaining me.

Of course, knowing my luck, the very moment I decide to go back inside will probably be the exact moment another visitor decides to wander into view. That's often how these morning watches seem to work, and perhaps that's part of what keeps me coming back to this little perch on the deck each and every morning.

I can't but notice something symbolic in this photograph. The granola bar is only partially eaten, the coffee cup is still sitting there, and the chair opposite mine remains empty. It gives the impression that breakfast isn't the priority, the experience is. The food and coffee are simply companions to the real purpose of the morning: quietly watching the world wake up around me.

Given everything I've already experienced before 8:00 AM today, I'd say my "morning watch" has certainly lived up to its name. Some mornings offer little more than coffee and conversation with my thoughts. This one has offered coffee, conversation with nature, and a front-row seat to a remarkable little wildlife parade.

7:52 AM

It's now 7:52, and just as it has been for most of the morning, there isn't a cloud in sight anywhere. The sky has taken on that deep summer blue that usually signals one thing, a hot afternoon is waiting in the wings.

For the moment, though, the morning still belongs to those willing to rise early enough to enjoy it. The long shadows continue to stretch across the lawn and deck, the garden is bathed in the soft light of the rising sun, and the air, while still warm and humid, remains far more comfortable than it will be a few hours from now.

If these conditions continue, I'm guessing today is going to be one scorcher. That being the case, I'll probably make my way down to the garden before long to give the vegetables a good drink and, as has become something of a tradition, offer them a little morning pep talk. Whether they actually listen is anyone's guess, but they certainly seem to appreciate the water.

By midday, both the plants and their caretaker will likely be searching for whatever shade they can find.

8:29 AM

At 8:29 this morning, before making my way down to the garden, I thought it might be in my own best interest to do a little fueling up first.

Not being particularly motivated to fuss over breakfast or prepare anything elaborate, I settled on a generous bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios topped with sliced bananas and fresh strawberries. Simple, healthy, and more than enough to provide a little energy before heading down the hill to tend the garden.

One pleasant surprise was being able to enjoy breakfast outdoors without having to raise the umbrella. The sun has only recently climbed above the treetops, and although I know it's destined to become another hot July day, the temperature has settled into a surprisingly comfortable range for the moment.

So I'll enjoy every minute of it while I can.

Once breakfast is finished, it'll be time to head down to the garden to give the vegetables their morning drink and, of course, their customary pep talk. By this afternoon, I'm fairly certain both the garden and its caretaker will be looking for a little shade from what promises to be another summer scorcher.

9:58 AM

With the garden thoroughly watered and a few photographs taken along the way,

I made my way to the front of the house to tend to the flower pots and the remaining plants in my little greenhouse. It didn't take long before the heat reminded me that my outdoor work was finished for the morning.

By the time I returned indoors and stepped into the comfort of the air conditioning, I found myself completely relaxed. The morning had been productive without being hurried. The flowers had received their morning drink, the garden looked healthy, and the camera had captured a few moments worth remembering.

As the temperature continued to climb and the breeze gradually disappeared, so too did any desire I had to remain outside. Summer has a way of gently telling you when it's time to seek a cooler place.

Now, with the chores behind me and the house comfortably cool, perhaps a short nap is in order. And if sleep doesn't come, there is always something waiting to occupy a quiet morning at home.

10:38 AM

After a brief period of rest in my living room recliner, I was awakened by the notification sound from my phone resting on the table nearby. It was enough to open my eyes, at which point I realized my nap had been much shorter than I had anticipated.

As I looked across the living room, through the dining room, and out the patio doors, it quickly became apparent that I probably won't be venturing outdoors again anytime soon. Since coming back inside, the sun has continued its steady climb across the sky, bringing with it even more heat than earlier this morning.

The deck, which had been inviting only a few hours ago, now looks far less appealing. The stillness in the air and the increasing temperature make the comfort of an air-conditioned house far more attractive than the oppressive conditions outside.

I'm not exactly sure what the rest of the morning will bring, but I'll most likely make my way to the office/family room and spend some time at the computer. It's considerably cooler there and, at least for now, a much more comfortable place to be than sitting out on the deck waiting for the afternoon heat to tighten its grip.

At 11:52 this morning, I stepped back out onto the deck to spend a few quiet moments making a late-morning observation and enjoying what I had hoped would be a bit of fresh air.

The phrase fresh air, however, doesn't seem particularly appropriate today. The outdoor temperature has climbed to 88°, accompanied by a humidity level of 67%, making the air feel considerably heavier than I would have preferred.

With the wind blowing at only about five miles per hour from nearly due west, very little of that breeze is finding its way to the back of the house. Since my deck faces east, it offers little relief from the increasing warmth, and the air has become almost perfectly still.

Even so, standing here and looking across the hillside, I can hardly complain. The sky is a brilliant blue, decorated with scattered white clouds drifting lazily overhead, while the landscape remains lush and vibrant from the recent rains. It may not be what I would describe as comfortable, but it's far from unpleasant.

Given the choice, I'll gladly accept a hot summer morning like this over gray, dreary skies, cold rain, or snow and ice falling from above. Those seasons will return soon enough. For now, I'll simply appreciate another beautiful summer day, even if it's one that's best enjoyed in small doses.

The panoramic photograph complements my thoughts beautifully.

The sweeping view across our property emphasizes the openness of the landscape, while the brilliant blue sky and cotton-like cumulus clouds make it easy to understand why I prefer this scene despite the heat. The sunlight spilling across the green hillside gives the image a feeling of midsummer abundance, a reminder that even when the temperature pushes comfort to its limits, summer still has a beauty that's difficult to resist.

12:19 PM

Just a few moments ago, one of the resident cardinals landed on a lower branch of the pine tree, about twenty-five feet from the deck. He remained tucked well beneath the canopy, barely visible through a maze of needles and branches.

I suspect he was seeking a bit of relief from the late-morning heat, much as I had been doing only a short while earlier.

Knowing how difficult he has been to photograph, I stayed put and began taking pictures whenever I caught even the slightest glimpse of his brilliant red feathers. Although I couldn't see him clearly through the viewfinder, I figured the more photographs I took, the better my chances of finding one or two worth keeping.

After sorting through a dozen or more images, I managed to come away with two that I consider successful. They may not be perfect, but considering how elusive this fellow has been and how long I've been hoping to capture a decent photograph of him, I'm more than satisfied.

Sometimes patience is rewarded, and today this beautiful little visitor finally cooperated, at least long enough for me to bring home a couple of photographs.

As for the photographs themselves, each has its own strength.

The first image is my favorite from a wildlife perspective. The cardinal is framed naturally by the blue-green spruce needles, and the softer colors make his brilliant crimson plumage stand out beautifully. It feels like you're peeking into his world rather than simply photographing a bird.

The second image is technically stronger in one respect. The extra contrast and saturation make the cardinal almost glow against the dark background, emphasizing his vivid breeding plumage. It has more visual impact, though it sacrifices a little of the natural appearance.

I also smiled when I thought about taking 12 to 15 photographs to end up with two keepers. That's the reality of wildlife photography. Many people see the final image and assume it was luck, but they never see the dozen frames that came before it. Good wildlife photography is usually the result of patience far more than chance.

One thing struck me as I looked at these. Over the past few weeks, I've photographed the sunrise, flowers, the garden, deer, turkeys, squirrels, rabbits, and now one of my resident cardinals. Without really setting out to do it, I're creating a visual journal of our property through the seasons. Months or years from now, those photographs will be much more than individual pictures, they'll become a record of the life that surrounds our home and the quiet moments I noticed enough to preserve.

Evening Reflections – 8:41 PM

After preparing a simple dinner around 7:00 PM, I returned to my familiar seat on the deck to close out the day. Although the thermometer still read 85 degrees and the humidity remained at 70 percent, the light southwest breeze made the evening surprisingly comfortable compared to the oppressive heat and humidity that dominated much of the day. As the sun slipped lower in the sky, the landscape settled into one of those peaceful summer evenings that make it easy to forget, if only briefly, the concerns that weigh on the mind.

Earlier in the evening, my daughter called with difficult news about Gabe, her beloved Golden Retriever. At approximately thirteen years old, he has reached the point where he can no longer stand, even with assistance. She told me how heartbreaking it is because mentally he still seems very much like himself, but physically his body is failing him.

I gently suggested that perhaps the time has come to consider letting him go peacefully, but I could understand why she wasn't ready to hear those words. I love Gabe dearly myself and have always enjoyed every visit with him. Moments like these remind me why I chose not to have another dog after losing previous pets. They become members of the family, bringing years of unconditional love and companionship, yet their lives are so much shorter than ours, making the inevitable goodbye one of life's hardest experiences.

I also received a text from my niece informing me that the plans are now to bring my sister-in-law, Linda, home from the hospital under hospice care. My niece intends to move back in with her mother to help care for her, despite recovering from her own recent foot surgery, wearing a cast, using a walker, and dealing with a frozen shoulder that has left one arm in a sling. Thankfully, her brother Scott, who is off for the summer from teaching, will be staying to help for a while, and Lindsey, the second daughter, continues to do everything she can while balancing the demands of her career as a pharmacist.

As I thought about everything unfolding around me, I found myself reflecting on the expression "the golden years." Whoever coined that phrase clearly wasn't thinking about times like these. Sometimes it feels less like the golden years and more like the "Murphy Years," a period of life when it seems that if something can go wrong, sooner or later it probably will.

Other than making a few additions to today's blog, I don't have many plans for the remainder of the evening. Tomorrow I hope to visit the local home improvement center and finally order the new patio door I've been planning.

My daughter also mentioned that she intends to visit Linda in the hospital tomorrow and asked if I wanted to go along. I haven't decided yet. The thought of returning to a hospital so close to the first anniversary of Fran's passing on July 10 brings back memories that are still painfully fresh. Part of me wants to be there for Linda and the family, while another part knows just how emotionally difficult that visit may be.

As darkness slowly settled over the backyard this evening, I was reminded once again that even on the most peaceful summer nights, life has a way of asking us to balance gratitude with grief, hope with uncertainty, and cherished memories with the difficult realities of growing older.

Day's End – 9:01 PM

At 9:01 PM, another summer day quietly slips into memory.

As darkness gradually settled across the backyard, the last traces of daylight faded from the western sky, leaving only soft pastel colors above the tree line. The evening remained warm at 85 degrees, but the southwest breeze continued to make sitting on the deck surprisingly comfortable after a day of oppressive heat and humidity.

Today was one of those days that offered moments of peace intertwined with reminders of life's more difficult realities. Thoughts of Gabe, my daughter's aging Golden Retriever, and the realization that his time may be drawing near weighed heavily on my heart. News that my sister-in-law, Linda, will soon be returning home under hospice care served as another reminder that the passage of time brings challenges none of us can escape.

As I sat watching the daylight slowly disappear, I couldn't help but reflect on how quickly life changes. It seems only yesterday that Fran and I were sharing evenings like this together, watching another day come to a close. Now, with the first anniversary of her passing only days away, those memories feel especially close.

Tomorrow will bring its own responsibilities, including a trip to order a new patio door and perhaps a difficult decision about visiting Linda. Tonight, however, there is little left to do but be grateful for the quiet that surrounds me and for another day that, despite its sorrows, also offered moments of beauty and reflection.

One more sunset has come and gone. Another page has been written in the story of this life, and with it comes the hope that tomorrow, whatever it may bring, will also offer something worth remembering.

Good night.

July 3, 2026

5:02 AM

I've been awake since about 3:30 this morning but didn't finally get out of bed until around 4:30. Unfortunately, I don't feel very well rested. After lying there for nearly an hour, unable to fall back asleep, I decided I might as well get up and get the day started.

After preparing my first cup of coffee, I opened the patio door and was greeted by a wall of warmth and humidity. The outdoor temperature was already 76°, with the humidity sitting at 86%. It looks as though today will begin much the same way yesterday ended, hot, muggy, and uncomfortable.

For now, however, I've chosen to remain indoors. I'm settled into the living room recliner, wrapped in the comfort of 70-degree air with the humidity inside hovering around 40%. At the moment, that seems far more inviting than venturing out onto the deck.

Having managed only about three hours of uninterrupted sleep, I suspect there will be more than a few naps scattered throughout the day.

Outside, it's still very dark. Aside from the lights illuminating the parking lot of the school behind my house, there are few signs that morning is approaching. The world seems to be quietly waiting for the first hint of daylight.

As for the day ahead, one decision continues to weigh on my mind. I still haven't decided whether I'll make the trip to visit my sister-in-law Linda in the hospital. It's a choice I've been wrestling with since waking, and for the moment, I'm content to let the quiet of this early morning accompany me while I give it a little more thought.

6:41 AM

As I found myself getting lost in the beauty of the morning sunrise,

something moving in my peripheral vision caught my attention.

Across the back of the property, just beyond the field, a small parade of wild turkeys emerged from the tree line. One after another they crossed the roadway to the left of where I was seated before making their way into my neighbor's yard.

There wasn't the slightest hint of urgency in their movements. They simply strolled across the road as though they owned it, unconcerned with anything around them. Watching them made me smile. It was yet another reminder that while I often sit waiting for nature to reveal itself, sometimes it arrives completely unannounced.

The sunrise had already given me one gift this morning. The turkeys made sure the morning wasn't finished surprising me.

9:46 AM

I had just finished preparing a breakfast bowl of plain Greek yogurt topped with chia seeds, mixed fruit, and granola.

Considering how warm it already was outdoors, I seriously debated eating at the dining room table in the comfort of the air conditioning. Instead, I decided to head out onto the deck, put up the umbrella, and enjoy breakfast outside.

I can't begin to tell you how glad I am that I made that decision.

No sooner had I sat down and started enjoying my breakfast than I became so focused on what was in the bowl that I wasn't paying much attention to what was happening around me. For some reason, I paused for a moment, lifted my head, and looked to my left.

Standing there, no more than thirty or forty feet away, was a young buck.

He looked directly at me as if to say, "What have you got there, old guy?"

Fortunately, my iPhone was sitting beside me and, even more fortunately, it was already in camera mode. I reached for it as gently as I could, hoping he wouldn't bolt before I could get a photograph.

To my surprise, he didn't move. Instead, he stood there almost posing, giving me several opportunities to capture what I consider some of my favorite wildlife photographs of the summer. His velvet antlers were beginning to take shape, his ears were perked toward me, and his expression was one of pure curiosity.

After a few moments, he decided he'd seen enough of his strange breakfast companion. With a couple of graceful bounds, he disappeared across the lawn and back toward the woods.

What a remarkable morning it has been.

First, a parade of wild turkeys crossing the road without a care in the world. Then, while simply enjoying breakfast under the umbrella, an unexpected visit from a young buck who seemed just as interested in observing me as I was in observing him.

It's mornings like these that remind me why I make a point of spending time on the deck. You never know what nature has planned next.

10:08 AM

At 10:08 this morning, I finally decided it was time to retreat indoors. The temperature has climbed rapidly to 86 degrees, with a "feels like" temperature of 91, and the humidity has reached 74%. Even beneath the umbrella, the heat has become difficult to ignore.

Looking back over the morning, I'm certainly glad I made the decision to head down to the garden around 8:00 to give all the plants a good drink rather than putting it off until later in the day. They received their morning baptism while the temperatures were still reasonably comfortable, and I suspect they appreciated it as much as I did.

After finishing in the garden, I came back inside, settled into the living room recliner, and apparently needed more rest than I realized. I drifted off for about an hour and a half.

When I woke up, I prepared a simple breakfast of plain Greek yogurt, chia seeds, mixed fruit, and granola. Although the air conditioning was certainly inviting, I decided to carry my breakfast outside, raise the umbrella, and enjoy another quiet morning on the deck.

That decision turned out to be one of the best I've made all summer.

Within minutes, I was greeted by a young buck who wandered into the yard and stood no more than thirty or forty feet away, looking at me with as much curiosity as I was looking at him. Fortunately, my phone was already within reach and set to camera mode. The photographs he allowed me to take are among my favorites of the season. He almost seemed to pose for me before gracefully bounding back toward the woods.

As if that weren't enough, the morning had already begun with a peaceful sunrise and a parade of wild turkeys casually making their way across the road behind the house.

Some mornings simply seem determined to remind us why it's worth stepping outside.

Today was one of those mornings.

Evening Reflection

By 5:53 PM, I returned to my familiar seat on the deck, determined to enjoy what may be the last stretch of sunny, dry weather for a while. After checking the forecast and seeing rain or at least a chance of rain predicted every day through next Sunday, I decided this evening was one to savor outdoors.

Although the thermometer still read a sweltering 94 degrees with 54 percent humidity, the air felt surprisingly tolerable compared to earlier in the day. The brilliant blue sky and warm sunshine made it difficult to believe that several days of unsettled weather are just around the corner.

The afternoon had been a productive one. I spent some time cleaning up my old HP computer and prepared another batch of my now "almost famous" Sunseri roasted peppers, making good use of the hottest part of the day while staying indoors.

Later, my daughter Kim called to tell me she was checking on Linda and the family at the hospital. She had planned to stop at Panera Bread and pick up breakfast for everyone, only to discover they had already stopped serving breakfast by the time she arrived. Undeterred, she and my son-in-law simply changed plans and brought Chick-fil-A lunch instead. It was a thoughtful gesture that undoubtedly brightened what has been a difficult time for everyone gathered there.

Before we ended our conversation, she asked if I had any plans for the Fourth of July. I told her I didn't. For me, tomorrow will simply be another quiet day at home, and at this point, that feels perfectly fine. After talking for nearly forty-five minutes, we said our goodbyes, each knowing we'd covered everything there was to say.

As evening settles in, I have no grand plans beyond fixing myself something to eat and enjoying a few more peaceful moments on the deck before heading inside.

Some days don't need to be filled with excitement to be meaningful. They simply offer the gift of quiet reflection, a beautiful summer evening, and gratitude for the ordinary moments that continue to shape this season of life.

Just another day in paradise.

July 4, 2026

5:32 AM — Morning Watch

I've already made my way out to my chair on the deck to begin the day's morning watch. The temperature is a comfortable 69°, though the humidity remains stubbornly high at over 95%. On paper that combination doesn't sound especially inviting, but in reality it feels much better than I expected.

Stepping through the patio doors, the first thing that caught my attention was the sky. The eastern horizon is remarkably clear, with only the faintest whispers of clouds lingering in the distance. Behind me, nearly overhead, an almost full moon hangs against a deep blue sky, unobstructed by anything more than an occasional wisp of cloud. It's one of those quiet moments when the night seems reluctant to surrender to the coming day.

The next thing I noticed wasn't something I could see, but something I could hear. In the distance, a pair of mourning doves seemed to be carrying on a gentle conversation with one another. It's a sound I don't recall hearing recently. Most mornings the chorus belongs to cardinals, wrens, robins, and the other familiar backyard birds. Today, however, it is the soft, peaceful call of the doves that welcomes the morning, setting a calm and reflective tone for the day ahead.

5:33 AM — Less Than a Minute Later

It's amazing how quickly nature can change its appearance. Less than a minute after taking my first photograph, the eastern sky had undergone a complete transformation. The deep blues of predawn gave way to delicate shades of pink, lavender, and peach as the approaching sunrise announced itself across the horizon.

The trees, which only moments earlier had been little more than dark silhouettes, began to reveal their shapes and color. The hillside and backyard slowly emerged from the shadows as the first light of day reached across the landscape.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly these transitions occur. One moment the world seems suspended between night and day; the next, the sun has begun painting the sky with colors that will last only a few fleeting minutes before giving way to the bright light of morning.

Watching these changes unfold from my chair on the deck reminds me why I rise so early. Nature's finest performances are often its briefest, rewarding only those who happen to be watching when the curtain begins to rise.

5:51 AM — Morning's Quiet Standoff

It's now 5:51 AM, and the morning continues its slow but deliberate awakening. With each passing minute, the eastern sky grows brighter as the sun climbs ever closer to the horizon, preparing to make its presence known.

Yet behind me, the nearly full moon still refuses to surrender the night. Hanging quietly in the western sky, it seems reluctant to yield to the inevitable arrival of daylight. For a few precious moments, both sun and moon share the same sky, each occupying its own corner of the heavens as though engaged in a silent exchange of shifts.

Seated on the deck with my first cup of coffee in hand, I find myself watching this familiar ritual unfold once again.

It's a brief moment that lasts only minutes, but one I've come to appreciate more with each passing season. There is no fanfare, no dramatic announcement, only the gentle passing of responsibility from one celestial companion to the other.

These quiet transitions remind me that nature is never in a hurry. Every morning unfolds at its own pace, and those willing to rise early are rewarded with a performance that most people never see.

6:00 AM — The Morning Settles In

It's now 6:00 AM, and much to my surprise, I'm actually feeling the slightest hint of a chill in the air. Given the temperature and humidity, it doesn't seem like that should be possible, but perhaps it's the gentle movement of the morning air or simply the contrast with the warmth that has dominated the past several days.

Over the last few minutes, another change has caught my attention. The sky has become alive with birds darting back and forth across the yard. At times they gather in small flocks of five, six, or seven, only to scatter again moments later. Others fly alone or in pairs, zigzagging almost frantically from one point to another.

There doesn't seem to be much conversation among them this morning. Instead, their movements appear purposeful yet somehow restless, as though each bird has its own destination while still being part of the larger rhythm of the morning. I suspect they're taking advantage of the cool, calm air to search for breakfast before the day's heat settles in.

The soft cooing of the mourning doves still drifts through the neighborhood, although not as frequently as it did earlier. Their gentle voices have gradually yielded to the growing activity of the morning, as the rest of the avian community takes over the day's first shift.

The vivid pinks and lavenders that painted the eastern sky only minutes ago have now faded into softer shades of gold and blue.

It's remarkable how quickly dawn reinvents itself. Each passing minute offers a new scene, making every morning watch a little different from the last and reminding me why it's worth rising before the rest of the world awakens.

Some mornings seem determined not to sit still.

Every time I convinced myself I had captured the best photograph of the morning, the sky quietly rearranged itself into something entirely different. I'd set the camera down, take a sip of coffee, glance back toward the horizon, and there it was again. Another ribbon of pink cloud. A shaft of golden light. The lingering moon refusing to surrender its place in the sky. Then thicker clouds would drift in, changing the colors and the mood once more.

This morning wasn't a single sunrise. It was a performance in constant motion, unfolding one scene after another. All I had to do was remain seated, watch patiently, and remember to keep picking up the camera.

At one point I found myself thinking I should have simply set up a video camera and walked away. Every time I laid my phone on the table and reached for my coffee, the sky had another idea. A cloud would appear, another would disappear, sunlight would brighten one corner while another slipped into shadow. Before long, I was picking up the camera again. This morning wasn't asking for one photograph, it was inviting me to witness an ever changing performance.

And just when it seemed the morning had finally settled down...

...it changed again.

This image has a completely different character from the earlier ones. The soft pinks have disappeared, replaced by a cleaner, brighter summer sky. The sunlight has finally reached the hillside, painting a diagonal ribbon of light across the grass that naturally draws the eye toward the garden. Even the vine-covered locust tree seems to have stepped out of the shadows and into the day.

One detail I especially like is the crossing contrails above the horizon. They almost resemble a subtle "X" sketched across the sky, as if even the airplanes decided to add one more brushstroke to the morning's canvas.

Unfortunately, very few people get to witness all of these stages because they're usually busy getting ready for work or heading out the door. I've been sitting quietly long enough to watch the whole story unfold.

It reminds me of something I've written before, though perhaps never quite this directly:

The sky doesn't really repeat itself. It only rhymes.

Every sunrise belongs to the same family, but no two mornings are identical. That's why my "Morning Watch" has become more than simply taking photographs. It's become an exercise in paying attention.

Judging from today's collection, I'd say the sky rewarded my patience in a big way. Some mornings offer a single memorable photograph. This one offered an entire chapter.

7:00 AM 

As I remain seated on the deck, still fixated on the ever changing horizon.

It occurs to me that it's rather amusing that, being the Fourth of July and all, so many people will spend their day waiting for fireworks, yet have little idea of the spectacular light show they could witness every single morning.

Perhaps it's the frugal side of me, or as some people might say, the cheapskate in me, but what amazes me most is that this morning performance is absolutely free. There's no admission charge, no parking fee, no crowds to fight, and no need to reserve a seat.

The only price of admission is getting yourself out of bed, finding a place with a view of the eastern sky, and simply taking the time to observe.

This morning's sky has changed so often that I've lost count of how many photographs I've taken. Every time I set the camera down, convinced the show was winding down, another act began. Clouds shifted, colors softened, sunlight found a new corner of the landscape, and I found myself reaching for the camera once again.

It has been a Fourth of July celebration unlike any other, one put on by nature herself, requiring nothing more than an early riser willing to watch.

At 8:50 AM,

The morning baptism has been completed.

The entire garden has received its morning drink, along with the flowers at the front and side of the house and the little greenhouse tucked against the southern wall. With the watering finished, I made my usual rounds through the raised beds and was rewarded with another generous harvest, frying peppers, Anaheim peppers, banana peppers, cucumbers, and zucchini. The garden is definitely beginning to settle into its stride.

The lettuce continues to flourish, almost as if it has no intention of slowing down. The squash blossoms have opened into brilliant golden trumpets, reminding me once again that some of the most beautiful flowers in the garden are attached to tomorrow's dinner.

Hidden beneath those broad green leaves were several handsome zucchini waiting to be discovered, while the cucumbers seem to appear almost overnight.

Laying everything out on the deck table beside my morning coffee always provides a satisfying moment of reflection.

It's hard not to feel a sense of accomplishment seeing the results of a few months' worth of planning, planting, watering, and tending. Every pepper, cucumber, and zucchini represents a small investment of time that has been returned many times over.

Gardens are amazing. They're a gift that keeps on giving.

Every morning they seem to produce another hand worth playing, and unlike most games, the winnings are edible. Nature has a remarkable way of rewarding patience, and on mornings like this I'm reminded that a garden rarely asks for perfection. It simply asks for a little attention, a little water, and the willingness to keep showing up. Today, it answered with another beautiful harvest.

1:47 PM

Thus far, it's been a relatively lackadaisical Fourth of July.

After finishing the morning watering and harvesting another generous assortment of vegetables from the garden, I came back indoors, settled into the living room recliner, and intended to close my eyes for just a few minutes. As so often happens, those "few minutes" turned into something considerably longer. I eventually woke up around noon, thanks in large part to my daughter calling. We talked for a while, and she asked if I had any plans for the day. I laughed and reminded her that my answer hadn't changed since our conversation the night before, I really didn't have any plans at all.

Sometimes having no agenda is a perfectly acceptable way to spend a holiday.

Stepping back outside a little while ago, I found the afternoon looking every bit like midsummer. The sky was a deep, uninterrupted blue with only a handful of fair-weather clouds drifting lazily overhead. A pair of jet contrails stretched diagonally across the sky, slowly dissolving as they were carried away by the upper winds. The flowers on the deck continue to put on a colorful display, and the lawn, thanks to the recent rains, remains lush and green despite the heat.

The thermometer now reads 91 degrees with the humidity at 54 percent. While that's a noticeable improvement over some of the sticky mornings we've experienced lately, it's still far warmer than I care to sit in for very long. I'll probably spend a few minutes out here simply enjoying the scenery before retreating once again to the comfort of the air conditioning.

Days like this don't demand that something extraordinary happen. Sometimes they're simply meant to be appreciated for what they are, a quiet afternoon, a beautiful view from the deck, a successful morning in the garden, a pleasant conversation with my daughter, and the luxury of having nowhere in particular that I need to be.

That's not a bad way to spend Independence Day.

5:06 PM

I've just returned to the deck, apparently just in time to lower the umbrella and put away the seat cushions. There's definitely a storm moving in from the northwest.

The weather is changing rather quickly now, most likely driven by a steady 12 mph wind coming out of due west. I can see it in the treetops and even in the blades of grass. Because the deck sits on the eastern side of the house, much of that direct wind is being diverted around me, leaving my little corner feeling surprisingly sheltered despite what I can plainly see unfolding beyond it.

The weather alert predicts a severe thunderstorm arriving in about nine or ten minutes, with the worst of it expected to last only fifteen or twenty minutes.

Mother Nature appears ready to put on yet another performance today, one that promises to be far more dramatic than this morning's sunrise.

This is one show I don't particularly care to watch from a front row seat. Instead, I'll retreat indoors, where I'll have a perfect view through the patio doors. From there I can appreciate the spectacle while letting the house do what it was built to do: stand between me and the storm.

Sometimes that's the better way to admire nature, not by standing in the middle of it, but by respecting its power from a safe distance.

Just as I was finishing up securing everything on the deck, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law stopped by to pick up some banana peppers from the garden along with a container of the roasted peppers I had prepared last evening.

As it turns out, they were actually the ones who first alerted me to the approaching storm. While they were on their way, they called to let me know they would be stopping by but probably wouldn't be staying because of the threatening weather.

After hanging up, I gathered everything I planned to give them, emptied the kitchen trash, and made my way to the front door. I deposited the trash in its container, and within a minute they pulled into the driveway.

We talked for only a minute or two before they were back on the road, hoping to make it home before the storm arrived.

With that brief visit behind me, all that remained was to head back inside, watch the sky continue to darken through the patio doors, and wait for Mother Nature's latest performance to begin.

5:15 PM

Even though I've lowered the umbrella and put away three of the four chair cushions, I remain seated at the table on the deck, enjoying what has become a rather cool breeze drifting around me.

It's truly hard to believe how rapidly the weather has changed. Just a short while ago it was an extremely hot, humid, sun drenched afternoon. Now the sky has taken on a completely different personality, and the air feels as though I've somehow been transported to the North Sea in the middle of December.

I can't help but feel a bit sorry for all the people who spent a considerable amount of money on fireworks for this evening's Fourth of July celebrations. There's a good chance many of those displays probably won't happen as planned.

Then again, probably is the key word. Storms have a way of surprising us. This one may pass through quickly enough to leave behind a clear enough sky for people to enjoy their celebrations after all. I wouldn't count on it, but stranger things have happened.

If the weather does interfere, I imagine we'll be hearing fireworks for several nights to come as people make up for today's disappointment. In a way, that's not such a bad thing. It simply stretches Independence Day into several evenings, giving everyone another opportunity to celebrate once Mother Nature decides she's finished with her own display.

5:30 PM

At around 5:30 PM, the few intermittent raindrops that had been falling from the sky suddenly began increasing in intensity, prompting me to head indoors just in the nick of time.

For roughly ten minutes, the rain came down rather heavily, drumming against the deck and quickly soaking everything outside.

After that initial burst, it gradually eased before finally coming to a stop about twenty minutes later.

The dramatic change in the weather was remarkable. Only a short while earlier, I had been sitting comfortably beneath the umbrella on the deck in hot, humid sunshine. Now the deck glistened with rainwater, the air had turned noticeably cooler, and a refreshing breeze had replaced the oppressive heat. It almost felt as though an entirely different season had arrived.

With the rain falling outside, I finished what remained of the vegetable lasagna for dinner. I had taken it out of the freezer earlier this morning, anticipating it would probably become tonight's meal, and it did.

The portion was more than adequate to satisfy my late afternoon appetite, making for a simple but thoroughly enjoyable dinner while I watched the storm complete its brief visit from the warmth and comfort of the dining room.

8:02 PM

It's now 8:02 PM, and I can't believe an entire day has almost passed and I haven't accomplished much of anything.

I must admit that I spent a great deal of time today thinking about all the Fourth of July celebrations Fran and I hosted here at our home over the years.

I used to laugh because so many people would tell us that receiving an invitation to our Fourth of July gathering was something to be cherished. It had become, in the minds of many, the social event of the season.

What originally began as a rather large family gathering of perhaps 25 or 30 people eventually grew into celebrations that sometimes welcomed well over 100 guests throughout the course of the day.

Fran and I would provide the hamburgers, hot dogs, and all the traditional Fourth of July fare, while nearly everyone who came would bring a favorite dish to share. More often than not, we would stand back in amazement at the incredible spread of food that stretched across not one, two tables, but sometimes three or four large tables, filled from end to end.

"Those gatherings truly were something special. We made countless wonderful memories hosting them."

They also required an enormous amount of preparation. Fran and I worked side by side for days beforehand. We didn't always agree about what should or shouldn't be done, and there were certainly a few spirited discussions along the way, "but we did it together." Looking back now, I'd gladly welcome every one of those disagreements again if it meant having her here beside me.

The simple fact that Fran is no longer with me is difficult enough. But holidays like today make that absence even more profound. I found myself sitting here alone, staring at the walls, gazing out over the vista beyond the deck and up into the evening sky, remembering days when this house overflowed with laughter, conversation, and the people we loved.

I try not to dwell on those memories for too long because they become almost overwhelming. Yet perhaps that's why so many of us who have lived long enough find ourselves saying, "Those were the good old days." 

They weren't perfect, but they were filled with people, purpose, and love.

Looking back now, I realize that what made them "good" wasn't the holiday itself, "it was having someone special with whom to share it."

July 5, 2026

Morning Watch

It was 5:54 AM on this Sunday morning before I finally convinced myself to climb out of bed. I had awakened shortly after 4:00 AM with another bout of uncomfortable leg cramps. After walking them off for several minutes, I returned to bed and managed another hour or so of sleep before beginning the day around 5:30.

Opening the patio door, I was greeted by a refreshing 67° morning. Although the humidity stood at an oppressive 96%, the sky hinted that it might reward an early riser with a brief display before surrendering to the clouds forecast for later in the day.

Stepping onto the deck, however, quickly reminded me just how much moisture was hanging in the air. Every railing, chair, tabletop, and board seemed to be wearing a coat of water. Calling it dew hardly seems adequate—it looked more like it had rained overnight.

The weather forecast promises a little sunshine between six and eight o'clock this morning before mostly cloudy skies take over for much of the day. By evening there's a thirty to thirty-five percent chance of rain. Time will tell whether Mother Nature keeps that appointment.

By 6:38 AM, Mr. Squeegee and I had already begun our daily ritual.

Together we cleared the runway, pushing puddles of water from the deck boards and table so another morning's observations could begin. It's become one of those small routines I never anticipated becoming part of my life, yet now it marks the beginning of nearly every summer day.

As the sun slowly climbed behind the pines, its warm light filtered through the branches while a gentle veil of mist lingered over the garden below. For a few quiet moments, before the heat and humidity once again took command of the day, everything seemed perfectly still.

6:51 AM

After spending the better part of twenty minutes with Mr. Squeegee, I finally lowered myself into my chair at the table,one that, thankfully, was no longer covered with pools of water.

The horizon continued to brighten as shafts of golden light slowly filtered through the lingering mist, giving the landscape a peaceful glow that only seems to exist for a few fleeting minutes each morning.

Yet what caught my attention wasn't the view.

It was the silence.

By this hour, the birds are usually well into their morning conversations. Cardinals announce themselves from the pines, robins chatter from the lawn, and the occasional dove offers its familiar, comforting call. This morning, however, there was none of that.

Not a chirp.

Not a peep.

Not even the distant caw of a crow.

The silence wasn't unsettling. It was simply different. Almost as though the entire neighborhood had agreed to sleep in for a little while longer after yesterday's Independence Day festivities.

For a few precious moments, the only sounds accompanying my first cup of coffee were the faint rustle of leaves stirred by an almost imperceptible breeze and the occasional drip of water falling from the deck railing onto the boards below.

Sometimes nature doesn't perform with a grand orchestra.

Sometimes she chooses silence.

And this morning, silence was enough.

7:04 AM

As I sit here in what still seems like almost complete silence, aside from the smooth jazz drifting out from the kitchen through the open patio door, I continue watching the Old Haymaker make his steady climb into the morning sky.

I can't help but smile as a pair of what appear to be very young squirrels, perhaps no more than twice the size of a full-grown chipmunk, begin putting on an impromptu performance.

They race back and forth across the road toward the old oak tree, seemingly without a care in the world. Then, just as they reach within a couple of feet of the trunk, they launch themselves through the air, landing with all four feet clinging to the bark before scrambling effortlessly upward.

It's a routine they repeat over and over again.

Watching them reminds me of a performance by Cirque du Soleil. Only instead of gifted acrobats soaring through the air beneath a circus tent, these tiny little squirrels are the stars of the show.

They're absolutely hilarious.

I find myself laughing out loud as they leap, chase, tumble, and somehow never miss their mark. They have no idea they've gathered an audience this morning, but for a few quiet moments they have completely captured mine.

Nature has a wonderful way of replacing silence with smiles.

As I had mentioned yesterday, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law stopped by to pick up some banana peppers along with a container of the roasted peppers I had prepared the evening before.

At around 6:30 or 7:00 last evening, my brother-in-law called to tell me just how much he had enjoyed them. He went on to say that he had finished the entire container I had sent home with him in one sitting.

I have to admit, I was almost in disbelief.

I thought this latest batch had developed a considerable amount of heat, certainly more than some of the previous ones I'd made.

He explained that he had grilled a couple of hot dogs for himself and his wife, along with an extra hamburger for himself. Macaroni and cheese rounded out the meal.

Then came the part that really surprised me.

He piled the roasted peppers on both hot dogs, added even more to his hamburger, and when there were still some left in the container, he stirred those into the macaroni and cheese.

That was the end of the peppers.

All I could do was laugh. I certainly hope he's prepared for a bit of an adventure the next time he heads to the restroom because, as I mentioned, this batch packed a pretty respectable punch.

At least now I know the recipe has one very enthusiastic fan.

Since last night's rain likely gave the garden all the water it needed, I probably won't have to make my usual morning trip down to tend the plants.

Instead, I'm thinking that perhaps later today I'll put some of the zucchini I've been harvesting to good use. There's certainly no shortage of it at the moment.

I'm considering preparing a simple marinara with fresh zucchini, sweet peppers, onions, and maybe topping it with some shrimp sautéed in garlic and olive oil before serving it over what remains of the homemade pasta I made a few days ago.

As I was thinking about the menu, my niece came to mind.

She's currently staying at my sister-in-law's house while her mom remains in the hospital. Between caring for her mother, recovering from recent foot surgery, and dealing with a frozen shoulder that has left one arm in a sling, she's carrying more than her fair share these days.

I happen to know she's especially fond of zucchini simmered in marinara sauce, often enjoying it almost like a hearty bowl of soup.

If I can muster enough motivation, and make a quick trip to the grocery store for the shrimp and mushrooms, I may prepare a generous batch and take it over to the house later today.

Sometimes a home cooked meal can't solve someone's problems, but it can remind them that they're not carrying those burdens entirely alone.

3:19 PM

Once again I've made my way out to the deck to soak up some sunshine. There's plenty of it this afternoon, although towering clouds are beginning to build here and there.

I left the house around 11:00 this morning to pick up some mushrooms and shrimp, thinking I'd prepare a zucchini marinara with mushrooms, sweet peppers, and onions to serve over some of the homemade pasta that's left. Thinking a few sauteed shrimp wouldn't hurt as well. My hope is to make enough for my sister-in-law, nieces, and nephew.

While I was at the market, I couldn't help noticing an abundance of fresh summer fruit. Much of it was reasonably priced, or at least as reasonable as things seem to be these days.

I couldn't resist buying some, especially since homemade fruit compote has become one of my favorite breakfast staples with Greek yogurt and granola.

The forecast is calling for rain sometime between four and five o'clock this afternoon, but for now it's quite pleasant. The temperature is 83°, the humidity is 70%, and there's a light breeze out of the southwest. Sitting beneath the umbrella, now that the sun has moved toward the front of the house, it's actually very comfortable. It would be even nicer if the humidity would drop a bit, but with rain on the way, I don't expect that to happen.

Once I build up enough motivation, I'll head back inside and start preparing the zucchini dish. I had hoped to bring it to the hospital today, but it's getting a little late for that. Instead, I may call my nieces and nephew to see if they'd like to stop by for dinner, or perhaps pick up the meal on their way home from visiting Linda so they can all enjoy it together this evening.

Today's trip wasn't entirely about groceries. I also stopped at the home improvement center to replace the porch light that's faithfully served for more than forty years. Lately it's become temperamental, working one minute and refusing the next. I removed it this morning thinking perhaps a loose or corroded wire was the culprit, but after moving the fixture around and watching it flicker on and off, I decided it had simply reached the end of its long life. Rather than turn it into a major project, I bought a new one and installed it after I got home.

While I was there, I also found a large outdoor storage box for the deck chair cushions. I've looked at them for years but always thought they were too expensive. Today, however, one was on sale for $49, so it finally came home with me.

Now all I have to do is assemble it, not today, though. With rain expected most of this week, perhaps one of those wet afternoons will be the perfect time. I'll simply add it to my growing list of projects, right alongside the planter stand I bought about a month ago that's still waiting patiently in its box.

Just before leaving for the market this morning, I received a text from Fran's cousin Josie's daughter, Cathy. She wanted to let me know that she had ordered a Scarlet Crape Myrtle tree that would be delivered sometime this week for me to plant in memory of Fran.

I have to admit, I was deeply touched. Cathy explained that there wasn't a way to include a gift card with the order, but the message she sent was more meaningful than any card could have been. She hoped the tree would bring me joy and add beautiful color to Fran's memory garden. As I read her words, I couldn't help but think of her mother, Josie, who passed away earlier this year. Whenever she came to our house, I would jokingly call her "Princess Josie." The title always made her laugh, but in truth she was so much more than a princess. She was one of the kindest, most loving, generous people I've ever known. She had a way of making everyone feel welcomed and cared for.

Reading Cathy's message today reminded me just how much of her mother's spirit lives on in her. The same kindness, thoughtfulness, and generosity that made Josie so special are clearly part of who Cathy is as well. A tree seems like the perfect gift. Unlike flowers that fade after a few days, it will continue to grow, blossom, and become part of the landscape where I spend so much of my time. Years from now, when its scarlet blooms appear each summer, I know I'll think not only of Fran, but also of the love and friendship that continue to surround me.

One thing I especially appreciate about Cathy's message is that she wasn't trying to erase my grief or tell me to "move on." She simply acknowledged that the anniversary is approaching, let me know I've been in her thoughts, and offered something living as a remembrance. There's a quiet grace in that, and I think it's exactly the kind of gesture Fran herself would have appreciated.

8:04 PM

Following quite a deluge of rain that finally came to an end about a half hour ago, and after putting Mr. Squeegee to work for the second time today, I've managed to reclaim my seat at the deck table before nightfall.

The storm began around 4:00 this afternoon, gradually at first. Before long, however, it seemed as though the rain was coming down in buckets, with the buckets still attached. Thunder rolled overhead, lightning flashed across the sky, and we even experienced a few brief power outages, just enough to make me reset the clocks several times.

All in all, though, the ground received a much needed soaking, after so many consecutive days of oppressive heat and humidity.

When the rain first started, I moved into the living room and settled into the recliner, where I spoke briefly with my daughter. I told her I'd made another batch of fresh fruit salad and invited her or my son-in-law to stop by if they'd like some. Since he was already out, he stopped over and picked up a container of fruit salad along with some of the roasted hot peppers I'd made earlier.

After he left, I spent some time cleaning up the kitchen while listening to the rain intensify outside. Eventually, the steady rhythm of the storm called me back to the recliner for a while.

Around 6:30, I made myself a simple bowl of soup for dinner, and by then the rain had begun to taper off. I hoped I'd be able to make one final trip out to the deck before the day ended, but first I had to find enough motivation to clear away the puddles that had accumulated, much like I had done earlier in the day.

Now, with the deck once again dry enough to enjoy, I'm content to sit here and watch another day quietly come to a close. Before long I'll head downstairs to the family room, sit at the computer, and make a few entries into today's blog.

At the moment, I feel as though I could remain out here for quite some time. The air has cooled noticeably. The humidity is still higher than I'd prefer, but there's little point dwelling on something completely beyond my control.

One thing I have noticed is that the birds seem determined to make up for all the silence that accompanied this morning. Their conversations fill the evening air, not in an unsettling way, but in a manner that's almost comforting. Now that the thunder has faded, the lightning has disappeared, and the rain has moved on, they seem to have found plenty to talk about.

As I sit here listening, I'm reminded once again that nature always seems to know exactly when it's time to be still... and when it's time to begin singing again.

8:21 PM

As I look toward the south, southeast, and southwest, the evening sky is providing quite a panorama.

There is an incredible peacefulness to it all. The landscape is gradually surrendering to darkness as the setting sun slips behind the remaining clouds. Gone is the violence of this afternoon's thunderstorm. In its place is a quietness that almost seems to wash over everything.

The birds continue their evening conversations while the trees stand motionless beneath a sky that appears to have transformed itself into a giant watercolor painting. The clouds, illuminated from behind, stretch across the horizon in sweeping layers, as though nature has decided to end the day with one final masterpiece.

As I sit here taking it all in, I can't help but feel that after all the rain, thunder, lightning, and brief interruptions of the day, everything has somehow found its way back to peace.

It's as if today is saying good night.

And perhaps, in its own quiet way, it's reminding me to do the same.

8:33 PM

The night is gradually beginning to make its presence known.

For the better part of the past hour, there has been a wonderful sense of peace and tranquility settling over everything. The storm had long since passed, the birds had resumed their evening conversations,

and the sky continued to reward anyone willing to look upward with an ever-changing display of clouds painted in soft shades of blue and gray.

It seemed as though the day was gently easing itself into night.

Then, almost on cue, the first fireworks echoed across the valley.

I suppose it's only natural. Last evening's heavy rains prevented many people from celebrating the Fourth of July, so tonight has become their opportunity to light the fuses they never had the chance to ignite yesterday.

I certainly don't have anything against fireworks. For many people they're a cherished tradition, and I understand the excitement they bring.

But if given my choice, I'll take the quiet every time.

There's something about sitting on the deck as daylight slowly surrenders to darkness, listening to birds instead of explosions, watching clouds instead of flashes, and allowing nature to provide the evening's entertainment that speaks to me in a way fireworks never could.

Perhaps that's one of the subtle changes that comes with age.

Or perhaps it's simply a reminder that the loudest moments aren't always the most memorable.

Sometimes the greatest beauty arrives quietly... asking nothing of us except that we pause long enough to notice.

July 6, 2026

5:33 AM

The day begins beneath a blanket of fog.

As I slid open the patio door this morning, I was greeted not by the colorful sunrise I've become accustomed to, but by a world wrapped in mist. Visibility was limited to little more than the silhouettes of familiar trees, their outlines softened by a dense fog that seemed determined to hold the morning at bay.

The forecast offers little encouragement, calling for periods of rain throughout the day. At 5:33 this morning the temperature stood at a comfortable 69 degrees, but the relative humidity had climbed to 96 percent, with barely enough wind to stir a single leaf.

I'm hoping the fog lifts long enough to allow me a few quiet moments on the deck before leaving for my doctor's appointment at 11:00 this morning. Even when the sky refuses to put on one of its colorful performances, there's still a certain beauty in mornings like this. The landscape becomes quieter, more mysterious, and somehow encourages a slower pace.

Not every dawn arrives with brilliant oranges and fiery reds. Some simply whisper their arrival through the fog, asking only that we slow down long enough to notice.

Let the day begin.

5:48 AM

Fifteen minutes can make a remarkable difference.

The fog that greeted me earlier is beginning to surrender, ever so reluctantly. Details that had been completely hidden only moments ago are slowly emerging from the grayness. Trees that were nothing more than dark silhouettes now reveal hints of their branches and leaves. The distant hillside is beginning to take shape, although still softened by the lingering mist.

Nothing dramatic is happening. There are no brilliant colors announcing the sunrise, no sudden burst of light. Instead, the landscape is quietly revealing itself a little at a time, almost as though nature is lifting a veil one careful fold after another.

This morning's watch seems to be unfolding in slow motion. Rather than racing toward daylight, it is taking its time, allowing each familiar landmark to gradually reintroduce itself.

Perhaps there is something to be learned from mornings like this. We often expect life to change in dramatic moments, when in reality many of the most meaningful changes happen almost imperceptibly. We don't notice them until we look back and realize how much has quietly emerged from the fog.

With a doctor's appointment awaiting me later this morning and rain still threatening throughout the day, I'll gladly accept whatever time nature chooses to give me out here. Even on a gray morning, there is beauty in simply watching the world awaken, one layer at a time.

5:55 AM

At 5:55 AM, the only concentrated source of light comes from the parking lot behind the school. It glows softly through the lingering fog, standing in for the sun that has yet to make its appearance.

If the morning unfolds as I expect, the first rays of sunlight should eventually emerge just to the right of that light, filtering through the boughs of the pine tree before making their way across the deck. Whether that happens today remains to be seen.

Other than stepping outside long enough to take a few photographs, I've spent most of the morning indoors, watching the horizon through the patio door. The deck table and chairs are covered with a heavy layer of dew. Cleaning them now would probably be an exercise in futility. With so much moisture still hanging in the air, it would likely take only a few minutes for them to become soaked once again.

So, for now, I wait.

This morning seems content to reveal itself on its own schedule, asking for patience instead of participation. There is something oddly peaceful about simply observing, allowing nature to decide when it is ready to invite me outside.

I also noticed something in my photograph that fits today's mood. On many mornings our deck looks like an extension of our living room a place that beckons me outside almost immediately. Today, however, it feels more like a threshold. The empty chairs aren't saying "come sit." They're saying, "Not yet." The morning hasn't quite finished preparing itself.

There's a quiet poetry in that. Some mornings ask us to participate. Others simply ask us to watch. Today appears to be one of the latter. It reminds me of one of my favorite observations:

Nature is never really in a hurry. It unfolds at its own pace, and this morning seems determined to do exactly that.

8:00 AM

After getting out of the shower and preparing to start the day, I found myself settling into the recliner once again. The weather outside remains every bit as gloomy as it was when I first opened the patio door, and somehow the quiet comfort of the living room seemed more inviting than venturing back outdoors.

Unfortunately, I've also been dealing with a familiar discomfort that has returned once again. There's an uneasy feeling centered just below my breastbone that I've mentioned before. At times it resembles a hunger pain, while at other moments it feels as though I've swallowed a rock. It isn't severe, but it has been persistent enough to make itself known throughout the morning.

It's certainly something I intend to discuss with my primary care physician during my 11:00 appointment. Hopefully, together we'll begin to understand what's causing it.

The last thing any of us hopes for is additional discomfort, particularly when we're already carrying enough on our shoulders. For now, I'll simply take things one step at a time and see what the morning, and today's appointment, have to say.

3:50 PM

I returned home from my doctor's appointment at around 1:00 this afternoon. On the way home, I stopped at the market to pick up a few groceries and, after unloading everything, carried the storage bin I purchased yesterday into the house. It now sits in the family room waiting patiently for me to assemble it.

By about 2:00 I settled into the living room recliner for what I intended to be just a few minutes of rest. As often seems to happen these days, those few minutes quietly turned into about an hour's nap.

After waking, I wandered into the kitchen and began preparing dinner. Zucchini, onions, bell peppers, mushrooms, garlic, and diced tomatoes all found their way into the pot.

If my nieces and nephew are available, I'll give them a call shortly to see if they'd like to stop by and share a meal.

I stepped outside for about ten minutes, but that proved to be more than enough. At 84 degrees with a relative humidity of 72 percent, the air feels heavy despite a faint breeze drifting from the northeast toward the southwest. The breeze seems to be making little headway against all that moisture.

The afternoon sky, however, is putting on its own performance. Towering clouds continue to build against patches of brilliant blue, as though Mother Nature herself hasn't quite decided how she'd like this day to end.

Whether she settles on sunshine or a summer shower remains to be seen, but for now she seems content simply keeping us guessing.

In the meantime, the aroma of fresh vegetables simmering on the stove has become reason enough to stay indoors and let the afternoon unfold at its own pace.

I especially like the symbolism between my last two photographs. One shows a sky that hasn't yet made up its mind, while the other shows a meal coming together one ingredient at a time. In a way, both are works in progress, one by nature and one by me.

All the preparation definitely required a taste taste. Some might call it quality control, I will call it dinner.

8:49 PM

As the day winds down, I find myself at the computer in my office/family room making the final additions to today's blog before calling it a night.

At around 5:30 PM, my niece Stacey returned my call to let me know she would like to stop by tomorrow to pick up some of the zucchini and vegetable pasta I prepared this afternoon. I told her that would be fine, but that I have a 9:45 AM doctor's appointment, so it would have to be sometime afterward. We settled on around noon, and I asked her to give me a call before heading over.

About fifteen minutes later, my other niece, Lindsey, returned my call. I mentioned that I had prepared fresh zucchini and other vegetables from the garden to serve over pasta and told her she was welcome to stop by if she'd like some. Since she had just gotten off work, she decided to come over, pick up a portion, and take it home.

We spent a little time talking while she was here, and she brought me up to date on her mother's condition. At this point, there is still no determination as to when my sister-in-law Linda will be discharged from the hospital. It appears that a number of arrangements will need to be made before she can safely return home.

As for my nephew Scott, I never did hear back from him, so I assume he must have made other plans.

Aside from a few naps scattered throughout the day, it has actually been a fairly busy one. Between the doctor's appointment, preparing dinner from today's garden harvest, sharing it with family, and now finishing these final blog entries, I feel as though I've accomplished a good deal.

With that, I think it's time to shut down the computer, head upstairs, and bring another summer day to a close. Tomorrow will undoubtedly bring its own surprises, but for now, I'm content to simply be thankful for a productive day, a garden that continues to provide, and family members who stopped by to share a little conversation along the way.

July 7, 2026

5:52 AM

I'm greeted with another moisture-laden midsummer morning.

After not getting to bed until around 1:00 AM, it turned into a rather restless night. I first woke around 4:00 AM and managed to get back to sleep, hoping for another hour or two of decent rest. Unfortunately, that didn't last long. Around 5:30 I was awakened by some rather intense cramping in my ankles and feet, making it clear that sleep was over for the night.

This morning I have another doctor's appointment at 9:45 with the surgeon who performed my hernia repair. I'm expecting it to be little more than a routine follow-up and, hopefully, a brief visit.

If I intend to spend any time on the deck this morning, my first trip outdoors will be carrying not one, but two squeegees, my faithful handheld "Mr. Squeegee" in one hand and the new telescoping 18-inch model that recently arrived in the mail in the other. Judging from the conditions outside, they'll both have plenty of work to do clearing the blanket of moisture from the deck.

The temperature currently stands at a comfortable 68 degrees, but with the relative humidity at an almost unbelievable 98%, the air is thoroughly saturated. Everything outside, the deck, the railing, the furniture, and even the surrounding trees, wears a coating of moisture. Despite the dampness, the eastern sky has rewarded the early risers once again with delicate shades of pink and peach drifting across a pale blue backdrop, a gentle reminder that even the muggiest mornings can still begin with remarkable beauty.

The squeegee team has officially completed its mission to prepare the deck for another morning watch.

As you can see, I've expanded the crew. No longer is it just "Mr. Squeegee" reporting for duty. The team now consists of Little T, Middle T, and Big T, with Big T serving as team leader, coordinator, and, naturally, the one doing most of the work.

Unfortunately, Mother Nature apparently wasn't impressed by our efforts.

Instead of the morning sky gradually clearing as expected, a dense fog has begun rolling across the valley, quietly reclaiming everything we had just wiped dry. The deck boards, table, railing, and chairs are once again glistening with moisture, as though the entire operation had never taken place.

It would appear that today's team effort has turned into an exercise in futility.

Then again, perhaps not entirely.

The deck may be wet once more, but in exchange we've been given something equally beautiful. The fog has transformed the familiar landscape into something altogether different. Trees that only minutes ago stood in sharp detail now fade gently into the mist, their outlines softened as though painted in watercolors. The valley has taken on an almost ethereal appearance, quiet and mysterious, reminding me once again that nature rarely follows my plans. More often than not, she has plans of her own.

And if I'm honest, she's usually the better artist.

The morning has been anything but peaceful.

Since opening the patio doors shortly after waking, I've been treated to the constant clanking, banging, and grinding of heavy machinery working in the distance. Crews continue crushing the old concrete that was removed from the high school football stadium to make way for the new facility.

The noise has been relentless, echoing across the valley without interruption. Even now, as I sit here trying to enjoy my morning watch, the sounds of progress continue in the background.

To be perfectly frank, it's become a bit nerve-racking.

I certainly have no objection to progress. New schools, improved facilities, and investments in the community are all worthwhile endeavors. I simply wish progress would be considerate enough to postpone itself until after my morning watch.

Unfortunately, I don't believe the construction crew received that memo.

For now, the chorus of birds and the whisper of the breeze have been replaced by diesel engines, steel striking steel, and the unmistakable sound of concrete being reduced to rubble. I suppose it's all part of the price we pay for progress, even if it does interrupt one of the quietest and most enjoyable parts of my day.

As I sat quietly watching the mist drift across the valley, a piece of music came over the smooth jazz station that so often provides the soundtrack to my mornings.

The tune was "I'll Remember You" by Herb Alpert.

Herb Alpert was one of the musicians Fran and I enjoyed listening to during our college years. That was a lifetime ago. Nearly everything about those days has changed. The places are different, the people have grown older, and many are no longer here.

Yet the music remains.

It's strange how a simple melody can change the direction of one's thoughts in a matter of milliseconds.

Just moments ago I was watching the fog slowly reclaim the landscape, amused that Mother Nature had erased the work of the squeegee team. Then, almost without warning, the music carried me somewhere entirely different.

Sitting here in the mist, my thoughts drift toward Fran, and for a brief moment I can feel a sense of rage and anger trying to take hold. Not anger directed at anyone in particular, but at the helplessness of it all... at the unfairness of losing someone after sharing more than half a century of life together.

I do my best to let those feelings pass.

I know there is nothing I can do to change what has already happened. No amount of wishing, bargaining, or remembering will alter the course of history. The music may carry me back for a few moments, but eventually it, too, fades into silence.

Perhaps that's one of life's gentlest lessons. We cannot choose the memories that suddenly arrive, but we can choose how long we allow them to keep us captive.

So I take another look across the mist covered valley, listen to the last few notes of the song disappear into the morning, and remind myself that today, like every day, is another opportunity to remember with love rather than live in anger.

As the morning watch continues, so too does the fog.

What first appeared to be the beginning of a promising sunrise has slowly surrendered to a blanket of mist that continues to roll across the valley. Rather than revealing more of the landscape with each passing minute, it conceals it a little more.

The constant banging and clanking from the construction equipment at the high school certainly aren't helping my mood. The sounds echo across the valley, replacing what is usually the gentle chorus of birds and rustling leaves with the harsh reminder that another workday has begun.

Even so, I can't ignore the remarkable beauty surrounding me.

The fog has transformed the ordinary into something almost mystical. Trees that I've looked at thousands of times now stand as soft silhouettes, fading into the distance as though they belong in a watercolor painting rather than my own backyard. The familiar has somehow become unfamiliar, and there's something captivating about that transformation.

Were it not for the relentless noise drifting through the mist, the entire scene would seem almost surreal, as if time itself had decided to slow down for a little while.

Perhaps that's one of the ironies of this morning. Nature is doing everything she can to create peace and tranquility, while mankind is hard at work reminding me that progress seldom arrives quietly. Between the two, I find myself somewhere in the middle, trying to appreciate the beauty while learning to tolerate the noise.

Before leaving for my doctor's appointment this morning, one of my little squirrel friends stopped by to pay me a visit. Actually, there were several of them scampering about, but one in particular seemed determined to capture the spotlight. He lingered in just the right places, almost posing as though he knew I had a camera in my hands.

It didn't take much convincing before he became this morning's wildlife model.

My follow-up appointment with the surgeon who performed my hernia repair went well. Everything appears to be healing as expected, and I was relieved to hear that things continue to progress nicely.

After returning home, I wasted very little time before heading into the kitchen to prepare another dessert. This time it was a crumble-type dessert square that, if I didn't tell you otherwise, you would swear was made with apples. The surprise, however, is that there isn't a single apple in the recipe. Instead, peeled zucchini takes center stage, transformed into something remarkably similar to apple crisp.

It's one of those recipes that never fails to surprise people.

By the time the dessert was finished and the kitchen was cleaned, my niece Stacey arrived to pick up some of the food I had prepared over the past couple of days. She left with containers of homemade pasta topped with zucchini, mushrooms, peppers, onions, garlic, and marinara sauce, along with the last of the eggplant Parmesan. I also sent her home with a slice of cheesecake and a container of fresh fruit compote. Whether she spoons the fruit over the cheesecake or enjoys each separately is entirely up to her. There was certainly enough to do either, or perhaps both.

She arrived around one o'clock and stayed until somewhere between two and two-thirty. As always, it was nice having the opportunity to visit for a while before she headed home.

Once she left, I settled back onto the deck for a couple of relaxing hours, enjoying the afternoon while doing a little research into urologists who practice in the area. Shortly afterward, another familiar parade unfolded as several wild turkeys emerged from the field behind the house, crossed the road along their well-traveled route, and disappeared into my neighbor's yard. It seems they follow the same schedule almost as faithfully as I follow my morning watch.

Around 3:30, I wandered down to the garden to do a little weeding and see whether anything was ready for harvest. Although there were several cucumbers and a couple of zucchini large enough to pick, I decided to leave them for another day since I still have plenty in the refrigerator. I try not to let either grow too large because they become filled with seeds, and when I'm eating them fresh rather than incorporating them into another recipe, I much prefer the smaller, more tender vegetables.

While making my rounds, I noticed something I've been eagerly anticipating for weeks. Several tomatoes have finally begun to blush red. Another day or two should be enough before they're ready to pick. Waiting a little longer certainly won't hurt them, although I have to admit I've been developing quite a hankering for the first truly vine ripened garden tomato of the season.

Now it's approaching five o'clock, and I suppose it's time to think about dinner. More than likely, it will consist of leftovers once again, and I'm perfectly content with that. One of the advantages of spending several days cooking is that breakfast, lunch, or dinner requires very little effort afterward.

By the end of today, however, those leftovers will have all but disappeared, which means tomorrow it will probably be time to begin creating something new in the kitchen once again.

Looking back over the day, it's interesting how it unfolded. It began beneath a blanket of fog, accompanied by restless sleep and the relentless noise of construction. Yet, by day's end, there had been squirrels posing for photographs, food prepared and shared with family, turkeys making their afternoon rounds, tomatoes promising the first real taste of summer, and the quiet satisfaction that comes from spending another ordinary day doing the simple things that have gradually become the rhythm of my life

5:22 PM

It appears the clouds are finally beginning to surrender, allowing the sun to do what it does best.

Although the sun is now on the opposite side of the house, that actually works to my advantage. Instead of sitting in the direct afternoon heat, I'm comfortably tucked away in the shade while the sunlight pours across the backyard, illuminating the trees, the lawn, and the garden below. It's one of those rare moments when everything seems to be working exactly as it should.

Looking back, it's hard to believe this is the very same day that began beneath a blanket of fog. The heavy gray curtain that obscured the landscape this morning has been replaced by brilliant patches of blue sky, drifting white clouds, and the rich greens of midsummer. The transformation has been remarkable.

I'll probably make my way inside shortly to prepare a little dinner. Leftovers are still calling my name, and I'm perfectly content to answer. Afterward, I hope to return to my familiar perch on the deck and enjoy whatever remains of this July evening.

It's interesting how often the weather mirrors life itself. A day that begins with restless sleep, dense fog, construction noise, and memories capable of stirring deep emotions can, with enough patience, gradually unfold into something entirely different. The fog lifts. The sun returns. The birds resume their songs. Family stops by. A meal is shared. A squirrel poses for photographs. Turkeys make their afternoon rounds. Tomatoes begin turning red. And before long, what once seemed destined to be a gloomy day quietly redeems itself.

Perhaps that's one of the reasons I continue these daily morning and evening watches. They remind me that no matter how uncertain or discouraging the beginning may seem, it's usually wise to stay around long enough to see how the day chooses to end.

By the time dinner rolled around, I had just about one serving left of the homemade pasta I had prepared yesterday. It was loaded with zucchini, mushrooms, onions, garlic, orange and yellow bell peppers, diced tomatoes, and plenty of seasoning.

Rather than simply reheating it and calling it dinner, I decided to dress it up a little.

A couple of days ago, I happened upon a package of shrimp that had been marked down to half price because the sell by date was that day. Since I knew I would be using it immediately, it seemed like a bargain that was too good to pass up.

A little olive oil and butter went into the skillet, followed by garlic, basil, and the shrimp. It doesn't take shrimp very long to cook, and before long they had turned that familiar pink, filling the kitchen with an aroma that made it clear dinner wasn't going to be an afterthought.

Once the shrimp were ready,

I folded them into the remaining pasta and vegetables,

topped everything with a generous dusting of freshly grated Parmesan cheese,

and carried my dinner out to the deck.

Paired with a small glass of merlot, it made for a surprisingly elegant meal considering nearly every ingredient had already been prepared yesterday.

I've often thought there's a certain satisfaction that comes from giving leftovers a second life. Instead of feeling repetitive, they become the starting point for something entirely new. A few fresh ingredients, a little imagination, and what might have been "just leftovers" suddenly becomes a meal worth looking forward to.

As I sat on the deck enjoying dinner, the clouds continued to drift apart, allowing the late afternoon sunshine to illuminate the yard below. Looking out across the garden, I couldn't help but notice how many of tonight's ingredients had either come directly from that little patch of ground or had been inspired by it.

There's something deeply satisfying about that, from seed to garden, from garden to kitchen, and finally from kitchen to table

.

It seems a fitting way to end a day that began with fog, construction noise, and restless thoughts, yet slowly gave way to sunshine, family, good food, and quiet gratitude. Days, much like recipes, often improve with a little patience.

One of the best parts of tonight's dinner is that by adding a pound of medium shrimp to what was left of yesterday's pasta, I didn't just create tonight's meal.

I created tomorrow night's dinner as well.

If anything, it may even taste better after all those flavors have another day to mingle together.

As I sat there enjoying every bite, I couldn't help but think about the price of ordering something similar in a restaurant. A dish like this would probably cost thirty dollars or more, and truth be told, I'm not at all convinced it would taste any better than what was sitting in front of me.

That's one of the joys of cooking at home. A little planning, a willingness to make good use of leftovers, and taking advantage of a bargain, in this case shrimp purchased at half price because I intended to cook it immediately, can produce a meal that rivals anything I've had in a restaurant.

The entire preparation took about ten minutes. Cleanup will probably take another ten.

Not a bad return on twenty minutes' worth of effort.

As I finished dinner on the deck with a glass of red wine beside me, I couldn't help but smile. The day that had begun with fog, construction noise, restless sleep, and memories that tugged at my heart had somehow ended with a meal I thoroughly enjoyed, tomorrow's dinner already prepared, and one more reminder that life's simple pleasures are often the most rewarding.

6:05 PM

The sky continues to clear, revealing an increasingly beautiful vista beyond the deck.

I think I'll sit here a while longer, savoring what remains of the evening and finishing my glass of wine. There doesn't seem to be any reason to rush indoors just yet.

Today, while retrieving the mail, I found a card from two very dear friends who now live in Denver, Colorado.

They were extremely close to Fran and me. When Fran passed away, Marlise, who at one time lived only a short distance from us, boarded a plane from Denver and came to the funeral home on very short notice. That is the kind of friend she has always been.

What's remarkable is that when Fran and I first moved here, we didn't know either of them from Adam. They happened to be friends of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law. Yet, without hesitation, they opened their garage to us, allowing us to store all of our belongings until we found a place to call home. Acts of kindness like that are never forgotten.

Life, however, has not been without its share of heartbreak for them either.

Many years ago, they lost their son in an automobile accident when he was only about twenty years old. Time has passed, but I know from my own experience that while grief changes, it never truly disappears. It simply becomes something we learn to carry.

Even though Fran is no longer here, our friendship continues. We still speak from time to time on the telephone, and each conversation feels as though no time has passed at all.

Perhaps someday I'll make the trip to Denver and spend a few days with them.

But not yet.

For now, I'm content to sit here beneath a clearing sky, grateful for friendships that have endured through decades, distance, joy, and sorrow alike. They remind me that some of life's greatest blessings aren't measured by how often we see one another, but by knowing that whenever we do, the friendship remains exactly where we left it.

As I look out over the valley this evening, I find myself thinking that perhaps that's what today's lesson has been all along. The fog eventually lifted. The clouds slowly parted. The noise of the day gave way to quiet once again. And in the midst of it all came reminders that some things, friendship, love, kindness, and cherished memories, have a way of outlasting even our darkest days.

As I sit here enjoying the peacefulness of the evening, I find myself reflecting on something that always amazed me about Fran.

During more than fifty-three years of marriage, with perhaps one exception, and that one was entirely my fault, we never went to bed angry with one another. Oh, there were certainly times when she became irritated with me. After all, I've done more than my share of incredibly dumb things over the years.

But truly angry?

Not very often.

About a year before she passed away, I asked her something I'd often wondered.

"How is it that you never really get mad at me? I've done some pretty stupid things over the years. How do you keep yourself from getting angry?"

She looked at me with that angelic smile that could light up a room and said very matter-of-factly,

"I'd go into the bathroom and clean the toilet."

I looked at her with complete bewilderment.

"How in the world does cleaning a toilet help you get rid of your anger?"

Without missing a beat, she smiled again and replied,

"I used your toothbrush."

She let that sink in for about two seconds before bursting into laughter.

"I'm only kidding!" she said, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

That was Fran.

She had a wonderful sense of humor and an uncanny ability to diffuse almost any situation with a smile. Looking back, I suppose that was one of the real secrets to our marriage. Neither one of us was perfect, but she never let life's little irritations become bigger than they needed to be.

Even now, sitting here on the deck so many years later, I can still hear her laugh.

And for just a moment...

I find myself laughing right along with her.

7:15 PM

I've just returned to the deck after spending a little time in the kitchen putting everything back in order.

The dishes, pots, pans, utensils, and cutting boards are all washed, dried, and put away. Rather than loading the dishwasher, I washed everything by hand as I usually do.

The stovetop received a thorough cleaning, so thorough, in fact, that I could practically see my reflection in it. The granite sink was scrubbed, rinsed, and dried until there wasn't a drop of water left behind.

Before leaving the kitchen, I also prepared tomorrow morning's coffee. The beans are measured, the grinder in the on position, the water is in place, and all that remains is to push the button when I get out of bed, something that has become part of my morning routine.

Out of curiosity, I decided to time myself.

When I walked into the kitchen, I started the stopwatch. When I stepped back out onto the deck, I stopped it.

Twenty-one minutes and thirty-two seconds.

Not bad at all.

In less than twenty-two minutes, dinner cleanup was complete, tomorrow morning's coffee was ready, and the kitchen was left in better condition than when I started.

I've often found that ending the day this way is well worth the effort. There's something satisfying about walking into a clean kitchen first thing in the morning. Instead of being greeted by yesterday's work, I'm free to pour a cup of coffee, open the patio door, and begin another morning watch without distraction.

It's one of those small habits that takes only a few minutes but pays dividends every single day.

7:29 PM

The serenity continues as I settle back into my evening watch.

The sky has continued to clear, the air has become pleasantly comfortable, and there really isn't any place I'd rather be at the moment than right here on the deck.

As I sat here trying to soak up as much of this beautiful July evening as possible, something suddenly occurred to me.

I made dessert today.

I suppose I'd better see how it turned out.

This is one of those recipes that never ceases to amaze me. It uses simple ingredients, requires very little effort, and yet almost everyone who tastes it is convinced they're eating apple pie or apple crisp.

The surprising part is...

There isn't a single apple in it.

The apples are replaced entirely by zucchini.

Peel it, remove the seeds,

add the right combination of sugar, cinnamon, lemon juice,

and a buttery crumb topping, and somehow the zucchini undergoes an almost magical transformation.

Most people would never guess what they're eating unless you told them.

I decided to top a warm piece with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a drizzle of caramel sauce.

I'd have to say the experiment was a success.

Between the tender zucchini filling, the buttery crumble topping, the melting vanilla ice cream, and just a touch of caramel, it became one of those desserts where you keep telling yourself, "Just one more bite," until you look down and realize there aren't any bites left.

Not bad for a vegetable that's usually destined to become bread, muffins, or a side dish.

As I finished dessert and looked across the backyard, I couldn't help but smile at how this day had unfolded. It began with fog, dampness, construction noise, and memories that tugged at my heart. It ended beneath blue skies with a satisfying dinner, an unexpected dessert, a glass of wine, and the peacefulness that had finally returned to the deck.

Some days ask us to be patient before revealing their best moments. Today was one of those days.

July

8, 2026

5:13 AM

The heat and humidity continue.

Standing just inside the open patio door with my second cup of coffee, it's still quite dark outside. The temperature is 68° with the relative humidity sitting at 96%. A barely perceptible southeast breeze of only 2 mph is moving through the air.

A quick glance across the deck reveals no standing water on the floor or furniture, but everything is coated with a noticeable layer of morning dew. Fortunately, it appears to be nothing that a few paper towels won't take care of before long.

Although dawn has yet to announce itself, a delicate crescent moon hangs quietly in the eastern sky. There is just the slightest hint of fog lingering over the landscape, hardly enough to draw much attention.

5:24 AM

Only eleven minutes have passed, yet the morning has already begun to transform itself.

After pouring a second cup of coffee and returning to the patio door, I was greeted by a remarkably different scene. The fog has increased dramatically, especially down the hill where it is settling into the valley like a slow moving tide. The crescent moon, once crisp against the dark sky, now glows softly through the mist, surrounded by a gentle halo that gives the entire landscape an almost dreamlike appearance.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly nature can repaint the same scene. In little more than ten minutes, the view outside my patio door has become entirely different. It's one more reminder that some of the most beautiful moments of the day are also the most fleeting.

As I stand here quietly with my coffee, waiting for the first hints of sunrise, it feels as though the morning is still deciding exactly what kind of day it wants to become.

5:33 AM

The fog continues its slow advance across the valley while the approaching sunrise is just beginning to make its presence known. Although the sun remains well below the horizon, there is now enough ambient light filtering through the eastern sky to allow the tree line in the distance to become ever so slightly distinguishable. The trees aren't truly visible yet, only suggested by subtle variations in the endless shades of gray created by the fog.

I took two photographs only moments apart.

The first was taken with the porch light on.

Although the light is connected to a dimmer switch and set to a very low level, it still illuminates the deck railing and nearby flower planter with a warm glow.

The second photograph was taken after switching the porch light off.

It's rather incredible to see how such a small amount of artificial light can completely alter the character of a photograph. With the porch light on, the foreground becomes the center of attention. Turn that same light off, and suddenly the eye is drawn outward into the fog covered valley where the moon quietly hangs above the landscape. The entire scene feels softer, deeper, and somehow more mysterious.

It serves as another reminder that photography isn't simply about recording what is there. It's about deciding what deserves to be seen.

As dawn slowly gathers strength behind the eastern horizon, the fog continues to weave itself through the trees, and the crescent moon still refuses to surrender the morning sky.

For a few more precious moments, night and day seem perfectly content to share the same canvas.

5:40 AM

The morning continues to transform itself at an astonishing pace.

In what seems like only the blink of an eye, the amount of visible light gathering along the eastern horizon, particularly where the sun will soon make its first appearance, has increased dramatically. Although the sun itself remains hidden beyond the horizon, its presence is becoming impossible to ignore as it softly illuminates the sky behind the distant trees.

Yet the fog refuses to surrender.

Looking toward the south. southeast, and down into the valley below our home, the mist still lingers in abundance, drifting quietly among the trees and softening nearly every contour of the landscape. While the eastern sky grows brighter with each passing minute, the valley seems content to remain wrapped in the final embrace of the night.

Adding to the beauty of the scene is the delicate crescent moon, still suspended above it all, seemingly in no hurry to give way to the approaching day. For a brief moment, the moon, the fog, and the first light of dawn all coexist, each contributing its own unique character to the morning.

It is one of those rare moments that reminds me why I find myself drawn to this patio before sunrise so often. Every morning tells a different story, and today's story seems to be one of gentle transitions. Nothing changes abruptly. Darkness slowly yields to light. The moon gradually surrenders to the sun. The fog drifts almost imperceptibly from one place to another. Nature never appears to rush the process.

Perhaps there is a lesson in that.

Sometimes life's most beautiful changes occur not in dramatic moments, but so gradually that we scarcely notice them until we pause long enough to look.

5:48 AM

The morning continues to reveal itself, almost minute by minute.

This latest photograph clearly illustrates the growing influence of the approaching sunrise. Although the sun has yet to make its first appearance above the horizon, its light is now directly impacting the eastern and east-northeastern sky, painting the horizon with a warm golden glow that becomes more pronounced with each passing minute.

Meanwhile, toward the east, southeast, and down into the valley below our home, the fog continues to linger like a semi-transparent blanket gently draped across the landscape. It softens every tree, every hillside, and every familiar landmark, leaving only hints of what lies beneath. It is as though nature has decided to postpone revealing the valley for just a little while longer.

The contrast is striking. To the east, the day is eagerly announcing its arrival. To the southeast, the night seems reluctant to let go.

After checking today's forecast, I see there's a 38 percent chance of rain. With any luck, perhaps the day is still salvageable. Not that I have anything against the rain. In fact, it solves a few problems for me by sparing a trip down to water the garden. The vegetables certainly never complain about a good soaking.

Still, if I were given a choice, I'd much rather have the rain perform its duties overnight while I'm tucked comfortably away in bed, leaving the daylight hours free to enjoy mornings like this one.

Watching the horizon brighten while the fog slowly surrenders reminds me that nature always seems to find its own rhythm. Nothing is hurried. Nothing is forced. The day arrives precisely as it intends to, one quiet moment at a time.

6:07 AM

At last, I've made my way out onto the deck.

Little T is in hand, with Middle T standing by in the hallway pantry, should morning dew decide to make another appearance. The deck furnishings have been dried off, one of the seat cushions has been returned to its rightful place, and everything is once again ready for another installment of my morning watch.

It seems I've reached that familiar point in the morning when remaining indoors is no longer an option. The deck has been calling, and as usual, it has won.

Once I settle into my chair, the ritual will be complete. Coffee cup will soon be refilled, smooth jazz will begin drifting softly through the morning air, and another day will quietly unfold before me.

The fog still lingers over the valley to the southeast, although it has begun a slow retreat as the strengthening sunlight gradually asserts itself across the eastern horizon. The landscape now seems suspended somewhere between two worlds. One is wrapped in the cool softness of lingering mist, while the other is being gently awakened by the warm light of a new day.

It's a transition that happens every morning, yet somehow it never becomes ordinary.

There is something comforting about these simple routines. Drying the table. Wiping away the dew. Carrying a warm cup outdoors. Turning on the music. Taking a seat before the day gathers momentum. None of these things are particularly significant by themselves, but together they create a quiet rhythm that reminds me to slow down long enough to appreciate the world as it awakens around me.

And so begins another morning watch.

6:26 AM

Just about all traces of the morning dew have now been removed from the deck table and the chairs surrounding it. My coffee mug has been topped off, smooth jazz drifts quietly from the kitchen, and I've taken my front-row seat for the opening act of yet another new day.

Unlike a Broadway production, this performance won't begin with the lights dimming. Instead, they will gradually increase as the morning unfolds. The curtain has already begun to rise, revealing a landscape that only a short while ago was hidden beneath a blanket of fog.

As I look across the deck, everything seems to have found its place. The table is dry, the chair is comfortable, the flowers beside me are beginning to awaken in the growing light, and the last remnants of fog continue to drift lazily through the valley below.

The coffee is hot, the music is soft, and the audience consists of just one.

That's perfectly fine with me.

I've often thought that some of life's finest performances are the ones that go almost entirely unnoticed. There are no tickets to purchase, no reserved seating, no standing ovation waiting at the end. The only requirement is to be willing to get out of bed early enough to witness them.

Every sunrise is a premiere.

No two are ever exactly alike.

And every morning, without fail, nature manages to remind me that the finest production on earth has never charged admission.

6:32 AM

It's becoming quite obvious that the world is awakening.

Just a short while ago there were no signs of movement outdoors. Not a single car passed by. The construction site behind our home remained silent. Even the wildlife seemed content to linger in the quietness of the early morning.

Now, everything has begun to change.

Several cars have already made their way along the road. The squirrels have resumed their morning commute, scampering back and forth between the large oak tree at the back of our property and the neighboring oaks across the road. The birds, too, have begun their daily conversations, filling the once silent air with a chorus that seems to grow louder by the minute.

The fog continues its slow retreat while the sunlight grows stronger with each passing moment. The stage that only minutes ago belonged almost exclusively to the moon, the mist, and the first hints of dawn is now being shared with the familiar sounds and activity of another summer day.

The performance has officially begun.

Let the day begin.

6:48 AM

Almost immediately after taking my seat at the deck table, the opening act made its entrance.

A small group of wild turkeys emerged from behind our property and began making their way across the road toward the school grounds. Had it not been for the lively conversation they insisted on having along the way, I might very well have missed them altogether.

As they carefully negotiated the occasional passing automobile, they carried on an animated discussion of their own, with a gobble here and a gobble there, seemingly announcing each step of their morning commute. Once safely across the pavement, they disappeared into the landscaping surrounding the school, apparently satisfied that another successful crossing had been completed.

It was impossible not to smile.

Only a few minutes earlier, I had written that the curtain was about to rise on another day. Nature must have been listening because it promptly sent the first performers onto the stage.

The fog may be retreating, the sun may still be climbing toward the horizon, and the world may just be beginning to awaken, but my morning has already been rewarded with yet another unexpected visit from some of my favorite neighbors.

Not a bad way to begin the day.

Right on cue, the old haymaker has made his first appearance through the boughs of the pine tree at stage left.

Only moments ago, the landscape was bathed in the soft, even light of early morning. Now the first golden rays of the sun have found their opening, slipping through the evergreen branches and casting their warm glow across the hillside. The fog that so gracefully dominated the opening act is quietly retreating, giving way to another beautiful summer morning.

As I sip my coffee and listen to the smooth jazz drifting out from the kitchen, I can't help but smile.

The curtain has risen.The orchestra has played its overture.The wildlife has made its entrance, and now, the star of the show has stepped into the spotlight.

Once again, the old haymaker has proven that he never misses a performance.

7:27 AM

As I sat quietly at the deck table this morning, coffee in hand and smooth jazz providing the soundtrack, I stumbled upon yet another feature of my new iPhone 17 Pro Max that left me talking to myself.

Apparently, the camera allows me to zoom in to an astonishing 40 times magnification.

I discovered it quite by accident after noticing a spider suspended beneath the deck railing, busily weaving a web between the top rail and one of the balusters below. Curious to see just how close I could get, I kept enlarging the image until I was suddenly looking at details I never imagined I could capture with nothing more than a cell phone.

Its legs, tiny body, delicate strands of silk, even the beads of moisture clinging to the web seemed to come alive before my eyes.

What also became immediately apparent is that photographing at that level of magnification is an entirely different experience. Even the slightest movement of my hand becomes exaggerated, making it nearly impossible to pan smoothly or hold the image perfectly steady. It certainly gives one a newfound appreciation for photographers who regularly work in the world of macro photography.

Still, what a fascinating discovery.

One of the things I enjoy most about photography is that it continually encourages me to look more closely at the ordinary things surrounding me. A spider that normally would have gone almost unnoticed suddenly becomes a remarkable little engineer, patiently constructing an intricate web strand by strand.

Perhaps that's one of life's quiet lessons.

The extraordinary is often hidden inside the ordinary, simply waiting for someone curious enough to take a closer look.

And I have to admit...

I love it when I learn something new.

7:36 AM

As I continued scanning the horizon from my seat on the deck, I couldn't resist putting some of the newly discovered capabilities of this camera to work.

The attached photographs were taken of the top of a utility pole approximately 150 to 200 feet from where I was sitting, using the equivalent of an 879 mm focal length.

The amount of detail is nothing short of remarkable. I can clearly make out the grain in the wooden pole, the glass insulators, and hardware that ordinarily would go completely unnoticed from this distance.

What surprised me most, however, was that at such extreme magnification the colors begin to disappear. The image becomes almost monochromatic, with contrast replacing much of the color that my eyes naturally see. I suspect the morning haze, combined with the tremendous zoom, has something to do with that.

Still, I'm continually amazed by what these little devices tucked away in our pockets are capable of accomplishing.

Not all that many years ago, photographs like these would have required a rather expensive camera and a long telephoto lens. Today, I captured them while sitting comfortably at my deck table with a cup of coffee in hand.

Technology certainly has a way of reminding us that there's always something new to discover.

7:42 AM

The banging, clanging, and clattering of machinery crushing what remains of the concrete removed from the old football stadium stands continues to ring out in the distance.

Today, however, it isn't quite as disturbing as it has been on previous mornings.

The noise is no longer constant, but rather comes in intermittent bursts. Even so, I must admit it's still quite annoying.

It seems a bit out of place against the backdrop of an otherwise peaceful morning. One moment I'm listening to birds carrying on their conversations, squirrels racing from tree to tree, and smooth jazz drifting softly from the kitchen. The next, the unmistakable sound of progress reminds me that the world beyond my little corner of the deck has already begun another workday.

I suppose that's simply the nature of life. Peace and commotion often exist side by side, each taking its turn to remind us that the day belongs to everyone.

8:00 AM

At around 8:00 AM, I thought it might be a good time to fuel up with a bit of breakfast.

Even though the zucchini crisp I had made yesterday was sitting on the counter looking quite tempting, I managed to resist the temptation and opted instead for something a bit more nutritious, yet every bit as satisfying.

My recent standby has become a bowl of plain Greek yogurt topped with a generous spoonful of chia seeds, a colorful medley of fresh fruit, and a handful of granola. It has become one of those breakfasts that never seems to disappoint, refreshing, wholesome, and surprisingly filling.

Bowl in one hand, coffee in the other, I made my way back out to the deck, where breakfast was accompanied not by television or the morning news, but by the songs of birds, the occasional chatter of squirrels, and the ever-changing canvas spread across the eastern sky.

Some meals nourish the body. Others nourish the spirit. This morning, I was fortunate enough to enjoy a little of both.

10:58 AM,

I've just returned from the kitchen to the deck to soak up a bit more of the sunshine.

While indoors, I put the morning to productive use. I deboned and trimmed four chicken quarters, which yielded eight pieces of boneless chicken thighs and four drumsticks.

None of the remaining bones or trimmings went to waste. They all found their way into a large stockpot, where they'll spend the afternoon slowly simmering into what I hope will become another batch of rich chicken stock and, eventually, another pot of homemade wedding soup.

The chicken portions themselves are now resting in a buttermilk marinade seasoned with salt, pepper, Cajun seasoning, onion powder, garlic powder, a splash of hot sauce, and just a touch of poultry seasoning. They'll remain there for several hours, perhaps even overnight if I don't get around to them today, before being dredged in seasoned flour and Panko breadcrumbs and introduced to the deep fryer.

Perhaps the most satisfying part of the whole endeavor is knowing that the package of chicken cost me only $2.65 thanks to a markdown. Considering the pantry ingredients and a little buttermilk are all that's needed to finish the recipe, I'll end up with twelve generous portions of fried chicken for remarkably little money.

I've always enjoyed finding a bargain, but it's even more satisfying when that bargain becomes several good meals, along with enough homemade stock to produce yet another pot of wedding soup.

5:38 PM

I just finished dinner at the deck table a few minutes ago. Leftovers from last night‘s dinner that were leftovers from the previous night’s dinner, but quite tasty nonetheless. At around noon today, my friend Bob from Greensburg called said he would be in the area. Wanted to know if he could stop by at around 3 PM. I told him I had no plans of going anywhere and that would be fine. Shortly after that, as I was sitting out on the deck under the umbrella, trying to beat the heat, several turkeys crossed the road and made their way into the field behind the garden. At around 3:30 a couple of squirrels started darting about, I managed to catch a couple photos of one of them.

5:38 PM,

I've just finished dinner outdoors, at the deck table.

Tonight's meal consisted of leftovers from last night's dinner, which, in turn, were leftovers from the night before. Even after a couple of reheatings, they were still every bit as satisfying.

Around noon, my friend Bob from Greensburg called to say he'd be in the area and wondered if it would be alright to stop by around 3 o'clock. Since I had no plans of going anywhere, I told him I'd be more than welcome.

Earlier in the afternoon, while trying to stay cool beneath the deck umbrella, several wild turkeys crossed the road and made their way into the field behind the garden.

A little later, around 3:30, a couple of squirrels began darting around the yard. One paused just long enough for me to capture a few photographs before disappearing once again into the trees.

Around 2:30, my daughter called. I could immediately tell something was weighing heavily on her heart.

Yesterday she had told me they would likely have to put their faithful golden retriever, Gabe, to sleep. He had reached the point where he could no longer stand or function on his own, and today she was understandably heartbroken.

I know that pain all too well. I've had to make that decision more than once over the years, and it's one of the primary reasons I no longer have dogs. They become members of the family, children in many respects, and while losing them is heartbreaking, being the one who has to make that final decision is almost unbearable. Yet there comes a point where love means sparing them any further suffering, no matter how much it hurts those left behind.

Just as he promised, Bob arrived around 3 o'clock.

I treated him to a slice of zucchini crisp, followed shortly thereafter by some of the roasted peppers with corn chips. As always, our conversations wandered from one subject to another, lasting nearly two hours. Every minute of it was enjoyable.

To describe Bob simply as a friend really doesn't do him justice. He, his wife Barbara, and many members of their family have shown me extraordinary kindness, generosity, and compassion not only since Fran passed away, but long before that. I honestly believe the man is about as close to a saint as anyone I've ever known.

Before he left around 5 PM, I made certain he didn't leave empty handed. Along with a container of roasted peppers, he took home a generous piece of zucchini crisp, a slice of eggplant Parmesan for Barbara, fresh lettuce, cucumbers, and zucchini from the garden, and a couple ears of sweet corn I had picked up yesterday at the local farm market.

The weather today was about as oppressive as summer can be, hot, humid, and for most of the day almost completely still. There wasn't even the slightest breeze. It became uncomfortable enough that most people would have retreated indoors, but I remained outside most of the afternoon except for a brief period just before 2 PM when a heavy shower moved through.

While waiting out the rain indoors, I checked on the chicken bone broth that had been quietly simmering since morning, replaced the lid, and let it continue doing its work.

Since I was already inside, I decided to tackle something I probably should have postponed.

The deck storage bin I had purchased a couple of days ago was still sitting downstairs in its box. Although I was careful not to do any heavy lifting after my recent surgery, I managed to work it upstairs by lifting one edge at a time, sliding it onto each step, then repeating the process until I reached the living room. It was far more pushing and sliding than actual lifting, but I still realize it probably wasn't my smartest decision.

Assembly, however, was surprisingly impressive. Not a single screw, bolt, washer, or piece of hardware was required. Every component simply snapped into place. Once finished, it proved remarkably sturdy, I even stood on top of it, and it easily supported my weight.

I'm not quite sure what the remainder of the evening will bring, but one thing is certain. I need to make a trip to the pharmacy to pick up yet another prescription for this recurring urinary tract infection.

It seems I simply can't get ahead of it, and sooner rather than later, something has to change.

8:00 PM

I just received a text from my daughter and son-in-law that completely unraveled me. It read as follows:

Before Gabe crossed the Rainbow Bridge this evening, he asked me to deliver this message...

"He loves you all, and he thanks you for loving him for the past 14 years." 🐾🌈🐾

As I mentioned earlier today, Gabe was peacefully put to sleep this evening.

He was one of those rare dogs whose gentle spirit could be felt by everyone who met him. They simply couldn't have asked for a more loyal, loving companion.

I honestly don't know how much more of this kind of heartache I can handle.

At this moment, I'm sitting here on the deck, overwhelmed, drowning in my own tears.

Shortly after receiving that text, I happened to notice a cardinal land on the wall surrounding the garden. He was probably seventy five feet away, so I knew it wasn't going to produce an award winning photograph, but I managed to capture a few images nonetheless.

All the while, one familiar saying kept running through my mind:

"When a cardinal appears, an angel is near."

Whether one believes that literally or simply appreciates the symbolism, the timing was difficult to ignore. Within moments of learning that Gabe had left this world, that brilliant red visitor quietly appeared in the garden.

It was comforting... and at the same time, almost overwhelming.

Earlier this morning my daughter sent me two photographs that now mean even more than they did just a few hours ago.

One shows Fran giving treats to Gabe and my daughters first golden Tyson when he was still a puppy,

while the other captures Gabe lying beside Tyson, the golden retriever who came before him.

Looking back now, they're no longer simply photographs, they've become treasured memories.

I'll remember both of those remarkable dogs for the rest of my life. They brought immeasurable joy, unconditional love, and countless smiles to everyone fortunate enough to know them.

The sorrow I feel this evening is simply a reflection of how deeply they were loved.

Earlier in the afternoon, before the sadness overtook the day, my friend Bob and I spent some time in the garden gathering cucumbers, zucchini, peppers, and lettuce for him to take home, along with a few ears of sweet corn from yesterday's trip to the farm market.

It was a reminder that life has a way of weaving joy and sorrow together, often within the very same day.

Tonight, though, my thoughts are with my daughter and son-in-law as they begin adjusting to a house that will seem just a little too quiet.

Goodbye, Gabe.

Thank you for fourteen years of unwavering love.

You were a very good boy.

8:51 PM

It's becoming quite apparent that today is about to give way to night

.

The southern sky is absolutely magnificent. Wisps of cloud, painted in shades of peach, gold, and soft lavender, stretch across the horizon as though nature has decided to bring this long, emotionally exhausting day to a peaceful close.

Just before stepping back outside with my camera, I went into the kitchen to strain the chicken broth that had been simmering throughout the day. I poured the rich golden broth into a glass container so it can spend the night in the refrigerator, allowing the fat to rise and separate before becoming another pot of homemade wedding soup.

As I worked, I found myself doing something I've done countless times before.

I carefully picked through the remaining chicken, removing every tiny piece of meat from the bones while making absolutely certain there wasn't the slightest fragment of bone left behind.

For years, whenever Gabe came to stay with Fran and me, he knew exactly what that meant.

He would quietly position himself beside me in the kitchen, watching every movement, eyes fixed on my hands, waiting patiently for the little reward he knew would eventually come his way. Sometimes there was a bit of drool. Sometimes there was an impatient shuffle of his paws. But there was always that unmistakable look that only a devoted dog can give.

Tonight, there was only silence.

The memories came rushing back all at once, and before I knew it, I found myself standing there with tears in my eyes once again.

Earlier today my daughter sent me those photographs of Fran with Gabe and his predecesor, Tyson.

Seeing Fran offering Gabe a treat while Tyson patiently waits nearby is one of those images that reaches far beyond the photograph itself. It captures a moment in time that none of us realized would someday become so precious.

Those weren't just dogs.

They were family.

Tonight, the kitchen felt a little quieter.

The deck felt a little quieter.

And somewhere, I hope, Gabe is running once again with strong legs, chasing after Tyson, while Fran smiles as she reaches into her pocket for one more treat.

As difficult as today has been, perhaps the evening sky is reminding me that even after the darkest, most heartbreaking days,

there is still beauty to be found before the light finally fades.

Good night, Gabe.

We'll miss you more than you'll ever know.

Just when I thought the curtain was about to close on today's performance, this happened...

The southern horizon, which had already treated me to a beautiful sunset, suddenly came alive once again.

Soft shades of pink and coral seemed to erupt from a distant cloud, spreading across the evening sky as though someone had gently brushed pastel colors onto an enormous canvas.

For several minutes I simply stood there and watched.

After all the emotion this day had carried, the joy of a visit from a dear friend, the heartbreak of saying goodbye to Gabe, memories of Fran, and more tears than I care to admit, it almost seemed as though nature wasn't quite ready to let the day end on sadness alone.

Whether it was simply sunlight finding the perfect cloud at precisely the right moment or something more profound is left to each of us to decide.

All I know is that it was beautiful.

Sometimes, just when we think the final curtain is about to fall, life offers one more unforgettable scene.

Tonight, I accepted it with gratitude.

Once again, goodnight to my dear old friend Gabe.

Good night, my sweet Fran.

And thank you, whoever or what ever you are, for reminding me that...

even on the hardest of days, there is still beauty to be found, if we simply take the time to look toward the sky.

July 9, 2026

By 6:44 AM, the Squeegee Team had accomplished its appointed task, leaving the deck prepared for another Morning Watch. The overnight rain had washed everything clean, and although a thick blanket of gray clouds still occupied most of the sky, the northeast had begun to tell a different story.

A soft ribbon of pink stretched across the horizon, quietly announcing that the old haymaker was making progress, even though he remained hidden behind the trees and clouds.

The sun had yet to make an appearance, but there was little doubt he was winning the battle. Sometimes that's all it takes, a little more light than there was a few minutes ago, to remind us that not every struggle is visible, even when the outcome is already beginning to unfold.

6:49 AM

After meticulously preparing the deck and its furnishings for yet another Morning Watch, I hadn't been seated for more than two minutes when I felt drops of water striking my head.

My first thought was, "No... it's not going to start raining already, is it?" Sure enough, within moments a light shower had begun.

Rather than surrendering the Morning Watch altogether, I simply relocated to the interior of the house where I could continue keeping an eye on the changing landscape through the patio door.

Fortunately, the shower appears to have been brief. Looking outside now, it seems to have already come to an end.

The northeastern sky continues its gradual clearing, becoming brighter by the minute,

while everything to the east, south, and west remains cloaked beneath a dense blanket of gray cloud cover. It almost seems as though the morning is trying to decide whether it wishes to welcome the sun or hold on to the rain just a little while longer.

By 9:30 AM

The morning shower had finally come to an end, and once again the Squeegee Team answered the call to duty, returning to the deck to perform its customary cleanup. Mission accomplished, the Morning Watch could resume.

11:22 AM

I've been sitting outdoors for about half an hour enjoying whatever Mother Nature has chosen to offer today. The sky has cleared considerably to the north, east, and south, although I haven't yet ventured around to the west side of the house to see what story that portion of the sky is telling.

While enjoying the warmth of the sunshine, I also found myself multitasking, spending some time researching urrologists in the area. Whether or not I'll ultimately need one remains to be seen, but I thought it prudent to explore my options and perhaps seek another opinion regarding what lies ahead.

The morning also brought an unexpected phone call. Ironically, just as I was preparing to contact my primary care physician about the catheter incident from earlier today, his office called me first.

I explained everything that had happened, and the nurse assured me she would relay the information to the doctor and that someone would get back to me.

The original purpose of their call, however, was to let me know that additional analysis of my urine culture had come back. Apparently, the antibiotic they had prescribed, the one I had already picked up and begun taking, was no longer considered the most appropriate medication. A new prescription had been sent to the pharmacy.

I realize medicine isn't always straightforward, and I know they're trying to provide the best treatment possible based on the latest information. Still, I can't help but feel frustrated. This isn't the first time, and certainly not the second or third, that I've filled an expensive prescription only to be told a day or two later that it needs to be changed. Once you've paid for it, there's little choice but to discard it and start over.

Life has presented enough challenges lately. I could certainly do without adding unnecessary trips to the pharmacy and wasted medications to the list.

4:45 PM

It's currently 4:45 PM, and I've just spent well over an hour on the phone trying to schedule yet another appointment with a urologist, this time not for a second opinion, but a third. I continue to search for someone who might be able to offer additional options regarding this catheter.

I was eventually able to secure an appointment, but unfortunately it isn't until August 25. I expressed my concern that waiting another month and a half seems far too long given what I've been dealing with, but I was told that was the earliest appointment they had available.

In the meantime, my PCP called after receiving additional results from my urine culture and determined that the antibiotic he originally prescribed wasn't the appropriate one. So, shortly I'll be heading out once again to pick up yet another prescription.

I have to admit, this whole cycle of being prescribed one medication only to have it changed a day or two later is beginning to wear on me. Beyond the inconvenience, it's becoming increasingly frustrating, and it's certainly not doing my wallet any favors.

When I return home, my plan is to make the meatballs for the wedding soup and, if everything goes well, perhaps finish the soup later this evening.

As if the day hasn't been eventful enough, another round of rain passed through this afternoon. So, if I hope to spend any time relaxing out on the deck this evening, the Squeegee Team will once again be called into service, making their third appearance of the day.

6:43 PM

I've just returned home after picking up my new prescription along with a few items from the market.

Before settling in for my evening watch, the Squeegee Team was called into action once again. Fortunately, today's third deployment only lasted a couple of minutes before the deck was once again ready for occupancy.

The weather this evening is just about perfect, 80°, 59% humidity, and a gentle southwest breeze of about 6 mph. Together they've created one of those evenings that simply begs you to step outside and stay awhile.

My intention when I left the market was to come home and start making the meatballs for the wedding soup. But the moment I opened the patio door, the deck extended an invitation that was simply too tempting to refuse. Needless to say, the soup has been temporarily placed on hold.

I'm not quite sure how long I'll remain out here. If the breeze continues, the humidity drops a bit more, and the temperature follows suit as evening settles in, I have a feeling this chair may have me captive for quite some time.

After the frustrations of today's phone calls, another prescription, and the uncertainty surrounding my catheter, sitting here surrounded by the gentle rustle of the trees and the quiet after the rain feels like exactly what I needed.

Sometimes the best medicine isn't found at the pharmacy, it arrives on a southwest breeze, beneath a clearing sky, reminding me that even difficult days can end in peace.

At around 3:15 PM this afternoon, I made a phone call to the Allegheny Health Network in an attempt to schedule an appointment with one of their urologists.

I spent about 45 minutes on the phone while they gathered my information before transferring me to one of their satellite offices closer to my home, where I was finally able to schedule an appointment.

That was certainly a step in the right direction, but unfortunately the earliest appointment they could offer wasn't until August 25.

I did my best to convince them that I really needed to be seen much sooner, but they weren't budging. They insisted that August 25 was the earliest appointment available.

Naturally, I accepted the appointment, but I think tomorrow I'll call the office again and let them know that if they have a cancellation, even on short notice, I could be there within an hour or two. Hopefully that might improve my chances of being seen sooner.

Just before making the call to AHN, my daughter, Kim, called. Considering the loss of her beloved golden retriever, Gabe, yesterday, she actually sounded better than I expected.

She didn't mention Gabe very much, but she did remind me that tomorrow evening she, her husband, my grandson, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, and I will be going out to dinner at a nearby Italian restaurant in remembrance of Fran, who passed away on July 10, 2025.

I still find it difficult to believe that an entire year has nearly passed.

It seems like only yesterday she was sitting here beside me on the deck, enjoying the quiet beauty of nature. Time has a way of changing everything, yet somehow so many memories remain as vivid as ever.

As much as I treasure these moments on the deck, they often bring with them a quiet melancholy. The peacefulness around me gives my mind time to wander, and before long I find myself wondering how different life would be if Fran were still here.

I cherish these evenings, but they also remind me of what has been lost.

Sometimes that sadness quietly settles in beside me. Other times it gives way to frustration, even anger, as I wonder why things had to unfold the way they did and what our lives might have been like had she been granted more time.

Even so, I know she would want me to keep finding my way back out here, to appreciate the breeze, the changing skies, the songs of the birds, and the simple gift of another summer evening. Those were things we both loved, and in many ways, they still allow us to share these moments together.

7;15 PM

After returning from getting today's mail and dropping off a piece of the zucchini crisp for my neighbor, I walked up to the front door to discover a rather unexpected surprise.

Sitting there was a huge box, probably close to five feet tall.

Earlier this week, Fran's cousin, Cathy, had called to let me know she was sending something, but with everything that's been happening lately, I had all but forgotten about it.

The moment I saw the box, I knew exactly what it was.

After carefully opening it, I removed a beautiful crape myrtle tree. It had made the trip all the way from Long Island remarkably well. The tree had been expertly packaged, and despite its long journey, it appeared healthy, vibrant, and ready to be planted.

I was deeply touched by such a thoughtful gift.

It was incredibly kind of Cathy and her family to send something so meaningful in memory of Fran. Unlike a bouquet of flowers that eventually fades, this tree will continue to grow, bloom, and stand as a living reminder of her for years to come.

Every summer, when its blossoms appear, I'm sure I'll think not only of Fran, but also of the kindness and generosity of those who continue to keep her memory alive.

July 10, 2026 (One Year after everything changed)