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.