On Grief and Grieving July 2026 Continued

July 10, 2026 (One year after the day everything changed)

6:21 AM 

Another gray curtain has been drawn across the morning sky. The temperature stands at 71 degrees with the humidity hovering at 93 percent as a gentle southwest breeze of about six miles per hour stirs the heavy air. The weather service has issued a flood watch, and it appears another round of rain is waiting in the wings.

Unfortunately, the morning also brought yet another malfunction with my medical equipment. After weeks of trying to get answers, being told simply to make another appointment,one that may not happen for months, is becoming increasingly discouraging. Some problems simply don't fit conveniently into a scheduling calendar.

For now, I'll do what I can. Before the rain returns, I'll head out with the squeegee, dry the table and chairs, and hopefully steal a few peaceful moments on the deck. If the weather chases me indoors, the wedding soup will finally begin its slow simmer, and I'll prepare the chicken for frying later today. Sometimes, when so much feels beyond my control, tending to a meal is one small thing that still can be.

6:51 AM 

After a brief cleanup with the squeegee, I finally settled into my chair on the deck to begin another morning watch.

The sky couldn't seem to make up its mind. One moment thick gray clouds concealed nearly everything,

and the next they drifted apart just enough to allow the morning sun to paint the eastern horizon with soft gold and pale blue. Every few seconds the landscape was transformed by changing light.

Aside from the songs of the birds and the smooth jazz drifting from the kitchen, the morning has been remarkably quiet.

Today marks one year since Fran's passing.

It hardly seems possible that an entire year has slipped by. At the same time, it feels as though I've experienced a lifetime of emotions during those twelve months. There have been moments of gratitude, moments of laughter, countless memories, and more tears than I ever imagined possible.

This evening my daughter has arranged for our family to gather at one of the Italian restaurants Fran loved so much. We shared many wonderful meals there over the years, and tonight we'll gather again, not because the sadness has disappeared, but because the love that brought us there in the first place never has.

For now, though, I simply sit quietly on the deck, watching the sunrise fight its way through the clouds. As the light changes from one moment to the next, I can't help but feel another wave of emotion beginning to rise. Perhaps that's fitting. Love, much like the morning sky, never remains exactly the same. It changes with time, yet somehow it is always there.

7:05 AM 

As the minutes pass, so does the heaviness that first covered the morning sky. Patches of blue continue to widen overhead while the eastern horizon grows brighter by the moment. For now, at least, the rain has chosen to wait, allowing me the gift of a little more time on the deck.

I continue trying to write my way through the emotions that have gathered on this difficult anniversary. One year has passed since Fran left this world, and although the calendar insists that time has moved forward, my heart still finds itself revisiting so many moments we shared together.

Writing has become my way of finding steady ground. With every sentence, I seem to regain just enough balance to keep moving forward. The sorrow hasn't disappeared, nor should it, but it no longer stands alone. It now shares its place with gratitude, remembrance, and a love that has proven itself capable of outlasting time itself.

This morning, the sky reminds me that even after the darkest cloud cover, light rarely arrives all at once. It comes quietly, a little at a time, until almost without realizing it, the landscape has changed.

7:10 AM 

A flash of brilliant red caught my eye as I scanned the garden. A cardinal had landed briefly on one of the trellises. By the time I reached for my camera and found an opening through the trees, he had already flown away. I never managed to capture the photograph.

As I sat back down, I realized that the fleeting visit somehow echoed the emotions of this morning. Not because I failed to appreciate what I had, but because beautiful moments have a way of passing more quickly than we ever expect. We always imagine there will be one more sunrise, one more dinner together, one more conversation, one more chance to say, "I love you."

Life rarely tells us when we're witnessing something for the last time.

The cardinal may have escaped my camera, but not my memory. And perhaps that's enough.

7:40 AM 

My morning watch continued with yet another unexpected visitor. Far beyond the garden, where the open field meets the tree line perhaps three hundred yards away or more, I noticed movement. At first it was little more than a dark shape emerging from the woods, but something about it caught my attention. After raising my phone and zooming in, my suspicion was confirmed. A lone wild turkey had quietly stepped from the shelter of the trees into the field, beginning its morning as I continued mine.

It seemed fitting somehow. Earlier, a cardinal appeared only briefly before disappearing before I could photograph him. Now another creature quietly entered the scene, reminding me once again that nature has a way of offering small moments of wonder when we least expect them.

On a day filled with memories and emotion, those simple interruptions are welcome. They don't erase the sadness, nor should they. They simply remind me that while I carry the past with me, the world continues to unfold one quiet moment at a time.

Just before 8:00 AM 

The breeze that only moments ago drifted steadily from the southwest has nearly surrendered to complete stillness. I first noticed it not by looking at the trees in the distance, but by watching the spiked plant standing proudly in the center of the large planter on the deck. Its long, delicate leaves usually sway and flutter with even the slightest breath of air, almost serving as my own natural weather vane. Now they stand almost perfectly still, interrupted only occasionally by the faintest ripple before returning once again to complete silence.

The sky, which only a short while ago hinted at brighter possibilities, has begun to lose some of its optimism. The patches of blue are slowly giving way to a familiar blanket of gray. It isn't raining, at least not yet, but the atmosphere carries that quiet expectancy, as though nature is holding its breath before the next act begins.

I retreated briefly into the kitchen to top off my coffee cup before returning to my seat on the deck. The morning watch continues.

7:53 AM

The quiet solitude that had settled over the morning has gently given way to a different kind of silence. The breeze has all but disappeared, and with it the rustling of leaves. In its place comes the rhythmic hammering of a woodpecker somewhere off in the distance, tirelessly working away at a tree hidden from my view. Every few moments, the steady percussion is answered by the soft, familiar coos of a pair of mourning doves nearby.

Together they form nature's own morning symphony, one providing the percussion, the other the melody. There are no automobiles, no construction equipment, no human voices to interrupt them. Just the sounds of another summer morning unfolding at its own unhurried pace.

On a day filled with remembrance, I find comfort in these simple things. The world has not paused because of my sorrow, nor has it forgotten. It simply continues, one birdsong at a time, inviting me to sit quietly and become part of it once again.

Coffee cup refreshed, eyes fixed once more on the ever-changing sky, the watch

continues.

8:09 AM 

Almost precisely as the sun reached the point on the horizon where it would normally clear the tree line nearest my seat, it made a determined attempt to break through the heavy cloud cover. The effort was brief and, at least for the moment, unsuccessful. Still, I found myself encouraged. It was a reminder that even when hidden from view, the sun never simply gives up.

Its presence was evident in the soft glow spreading across the clouds and the renewed color it brought to the hillside and garden below. Sometimes hope doesn't arrive as a brilliant sunrise; sometimes it comes as nothing more than a quiet attempt, and today, that was enough.

2:37 PM

I must say, it's been quite a busy day.

Earlier this morning, just as I started thinking about finishing up the wedding soup, the comfortable weather outside persuaded me to postpone my plans for a while longer. The deck was simply too inviting to leave.

At around 8:30 AM, my old friend, Tom Turkey, made another appearance. He cautiously poked his head out from the woods before making his way along the tree line toward the parking lot in front of the school behind our house. Considering he was probably over 400 yards away, I didn't have great expectations for the photographs.

Still, I fired off a series of shots, hoping for the best. To my surprise, I managed to capture one frame just as he lunged forward with his wings spread. Given the distance, I considered that one a small victory.

Shortly afterward, Fran's cousin Josephine called from New Jersey. She and her husband have owned a summer home in Myrtle Beach for several years, and they recently sold their New Jersey home to make South Carolina their permanent residence.

Then she shared some news that just about knocked me out of my socks.

Fran's cousin Frank, who stayed with me after his wife passed away in February and visited again just a few weeks ago, apparently collapsed while attending a fair in Ohio on the Fourth of July. He fell onto the concrete and suffered a severe back injury. From everything she told me, he's in pretty bad shape. He underwent major surgery and now has pins and screws stabilizing his spine. He's being transferred to a rehabilitation facility near his son's home, but it's over an hour from where Frank lives. Since he certainly can't return home alone, Josie believes he may ultimately move into an assisted living facility and sell the home he and his wife shared together.

Whatever happens, I don't expect I'll be seeing him anytime soon.

Not long after that conversation, Fran's cousin James called from Florida, and we spent another forty-five minutes or so catching up.

By about 10:30 AM, the weather began changing quickly. The wind steadily increased, darker clouds started rolling in, and before long the umbrella in the middle of the deck table was doing its best Mary Poppins imitation once again.

That was my cue.

I lowered the umbrella, tucked the chair cushion safely into the storage bin, and headed indoors to finally finish the wedding soup.

First came the meatballs.

I combined equal parts ground beef, ground pork, and ground veal, then remembered I still had the chicken meat I had carefully picked from the bones after making the bone broth. I ran that through the food processor and added it to the mixture as well.

Into the bowl went gluten-free breadcrumbs, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, Italian seasoning, garlic, an egg, and the rest of the seasonings before everything was gently mixed together.

Soon an entire baking sheet was filled with neat little meatballs, each about three-quarters of an inch in diameter.

Into the oven they went until lightly browned before being added to the waiting broth.

Remembering what happened during Fran's birthday dinner on June 27, the day I forgot to add the pasta. I intentionally cooked the tiny pasta separately. This time I let it go just beyond al dente so it would remain pleasantly tender once reheated in individual bowls.

There was another important reason for keeping it separate.

Since my son-in-law must follow a strict gluten-free diet, I wanted the soup itself to remain completely gluten-free so he could enjoy it as well. The pasta can simply be added to individual servings for everyone else, while he can enjoy the broth, meatballs, and spinach without concern.

Once the pasta was drained and stored away, I added a generous amount of fresh spinach to the simmering broth, allowing it to cook only long enough to wilt.

Looking into the pot as those bright green leaves settled among the tiny meatballs, I couldn't help but smile. It looked exactly as wedding soup should.

Now I'm left with a sink full of dishes waiting patiently for my attention before I get ready for dinner this evening.

Tonight, my daughter and son-in-law, along with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, will gather to remember Fran on the first anniversary of her passing.

I'm certain it will be an emotional evening.

Yet as I stood over that pot of soup this afternoon, I realized something.

For years, Fran and I made meals together for the people we loved. Today, although she wasn't standing beside me, I found myself preparing one of our family's favorite soups in exactly the same spirit, with love, with care, and with the hope that it might bring a little comfort to those who share it.

Perhaps that's one way love continues.

Even after someone is gone, it still finds ways to nourish those who remain.

9:05 PM

I just finished cleaning up a few dishes from today and prepared tomorrow morning's coffee, as has become my nightly ritual.

We returned home at about 7:30 PM after having dinner with my daughter, her husband, my grandson, and my brother-in-law and sister-in-law.

We enjoyed a wonderful meal together at a nearby Italian restaurant, one that Fran always loved because one of their specialties was homemade pasta. That was almost always what she ordered.

It felt strange sitting there without her.

There was an unmistakable emptiness that lingered throughout the evening. More than once I found myself feeling as though I simply didn't belong there without her sitting across the table. Everyone else seemed to be doing reasonably well, at least from what I could tell, but I can't speak for what they may have been feeling inside. I only know what I was feeling.

Today brought another round of convincing rainfall, and even after it ended the skies remained mostly cloudy with patches of fog drifting in from time to time. The weather certainly wasn't unpleasant, although the humidity was far more than this old body enjoys.

Then, on the drive home, something unexpected happened.

The sky slowly began to brighten, and stretching across the distance before us was a beautiful rainbow.

It was a pleasant surprise.

Was it simply sunlight finding the right angle after the rain? Of course it was.

Was it also a quiet reminder that beauty can still emerge after a storm? Perhaps.

Whether it was a message from above, or simply nature doing what nature has always done, is left to each of us to interpret in our own way. Whatever the explanation, it brought a smile to my face at a moment when I needed one.

I'll be heading downstairs now to the family room office to finish today's blog entries. Once that's done, I'll call it a day.

It has been a rather emotional one.

But it was a day nonetheless.

A day filled with memories, family, friendship, good food, comforting soup, unexpected news, summer rain, and finally... a rainbow.

As difficult as today has been, I'm grateful I didn't have to walk through it alone.

Tomorrow will bring another sunrise, and if the old haymaker has anything to say about it, I'll be out on the deck once again, coffee cup in hand, waiting to see what stories the morning has to tell.

As a final thought to this most difficult day:

One Year Later

Today marks one full year since the woman I loved took her final breath.

A year.

Three hundred sixty-five days.

It seems impossible that so much time has passed, because there hasn't been a single day, not one, when Fran hasn't occupied my thoughts.

She is still the first person I think of when something beautiful happens.

She's still the person I want to tell when I discover a new recipe, harvest the first tomato from the garden, capture a photograph that makes me smile, or watch another spectacular sunrise from the deck.

For fifty-three years we built a life together.

Not a perfect life.

Not an easy life.

But a beautiful one.

We raised a family.

We celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, graduations, weddings, and the ordinary days that ultimately became the fabric of our lives.

We argued occasionally, laughed constantly, and learned that love isn't measured by grand gestures nearly as much as it is by thousands upon thousands of ordinary moments, shared between two people who simply choose each other every single day.

When Fran became ill, our dreams began changing.

Eventually they became smaller.

Instead of talking about years ahead, we talked about getting through another month.

Another week.

Another day.

When she finally slipped away, part of me left with her.

I honestly wasn't sure I could continue.

Yet somehow...

Morning after morning...

The sun continued to rise.

I found myself sitting on the deck, coffee cup in hand, watching what I eventually began calling the old haymaker make his daily climb into the sky.

At first I was simply watching the sunrise.

Then I realized something.

The sunrise was watching over me.

The deer continued walking through the field.

The wild turkeys appeared as though on cue.

The cardinals sang.

The squirrels entertained me with their endless antics.

The garden demanded watering.

The tomatoes ripened.

The zucchini multiplied faster than any reasonable person could ever consume.

Life, despite my wishes at times, refused to stop.

And slowly I learned something.

Continuing to live wasn't leaving Fran behind.

It was carrying her forward.

Every pot of wedding soup I made...

Every loaf of bread...

Every tray of eggplant Parmesan...

Every meal delivered to family or friends...

Every photograph...

Every sunrise...

Every word I wrote...

She was there.

Not physically.

But undeniably.

Love has a remarkable way of refusing to disappear.

Today, as I sit alone in this house once again, I glance down at my left hand.

The wedding band is still there.

Some might wonder why.

After all, the vows say, "Till death do us part."

Death came.

Death did its work.

It took away the woman I could hold.

But it never touched the love we built together.

This simple ring no longer symbolizes a marriage that exists only in this world.

It symbolizes gratitude.

Devotion.

Fifty-three extraordinary years.

It reminds me every single day that I was fortunate enough to spend my life beside the woman who became my wife, my partner, my best friend, my confidante, the mother of our children, grandmother to our grandchildren, and the love of my life.

I don't wear it because I cannot let go.

I wear it because there are some things too precious to put away in a drawer.

Will the pain ever completely disappear?

I don't think so.

I've learned that grief isn't something you overcome.

It's something you learn to carry.

Some days it's light enough to barely notice.

Other days it weighs more than you think you can bear.

But I've also learned something equally important.

Love doesn't end when life does..

It simply changes its address.

So tonight, one year later, I don't say goodbye again.

I already did that.

Instead I simply whisper what I've been saying every day for the past year.

Thank you.

Thank you for every laugh.

Every road trip.

Every family gathering.

Every Christmas.

Every ordinary supper around our kitchen table.

Every dream we shared.

Every challenge we faced together.

Every sunrise we watched.

Every memory you've left me.

I miss you beyond words.

I always will.

And tomorrow morning, when the old haymaker climbs above the horizon once again, I'll carry my coffee out to the deck.

I'll look toward the trees.

I'll think of you.

Just as I have every single day for the past year.

Because although death changed the way our story is written...

It never brought the story of our love to an end.

Until we meet again, my love.

I'll keep watching the sunrise for both of us.

July 11, 2026

A Foggy Beginning – Questions Without Answers (6:00–7:00 AM)

The day began around 6:00 AM as I got out of bed, started the coffee, and attended to my usual morning routine.

Unfortunately, the morning also began with another frustrating episode involving my recently acquired medical equipment. Once again, everything appeared to function normally throughout the previous day, yet first thing this morning I experienced another unexplained leak. Anticipating that the problem might recur, I had fortunately made preparations in advance, but it nevertheless added another unanswered question to what would become a day filled with contemplation.

Outside, conditions were equally subdued.

The temperature stood at 69°, humidity hovered around 96%, and a nearly imperceptible southwest breeze drifted through a landscape saturated with fog.

The world beyond the patio doors seemed wrapped in silence.

That quiet atmosphere allowed my thoughts to wander far beyond the confines of my backyard.

I found myself pondering questions that mankind has asked for centuries:

• How big is the universe?

• How did it begin?

• How long has it existed?

• Will humanity ever travel beyond our own galaxy?

  
  

For a while my imagination drifted into "Star Trek territory," contemplating the possibility of one day exploring the stars.

The Doves Bring Me Back to Earth (6:53 AM)

Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room with the patio doors open, I suddenly became aware of the gentle cooing of doves somewhere beyond the fog.

Oddly enough, I took their distant conversation as a kind of reality check.

It seemed almost as though nature, or perhaps someone greater, was gently reminding me to return from the infinite reaches of the universe to the present moment.

Outside remained wonderfully quiet.

Inside, however, my mind had already begun assembling a mental list of things I'd like to accomplish during the day.

Watching the Weather... Awakening the Squeegee Team (7:00–8:00 AM)

Checking the weather forecast once again revealed a day expected to remain mostly cloudy with rain predicted during the late afternoon.

Knowing there appeared to be a window of dry weather during the morning, I decided it was worth waking the faithful "Squeegee Team" and preparing the deck for another morning watch.

By 7:30, the fog began lifting, patches of brilliant blue started overtaking the gray clouds, and optimism quietly returned.

Hope, like the blue sky, slowly began revealing itself.

Morning Watch from the Deck (8:42–9:18 AM)

Thanks to another outstanding performance by the Squeegee Team, I soon found myself seated once again at my favorite observation post on the deck.

Although the sun briefly attempted to break through, gray clouds eventually reclaimed most of the sky.

Even so, the intensely green landscape glowed with midsummer richness, and another wild turkey made its way into my field of view, just beyond the garden.

The humidity eased slightly, a gentle breeze developed, smooth jazz drifted from the kitchen, and the only other sounds belonged to birds welcoming the morning.

A phone call from my friend Bob in Greensburg introduced another possibility for the day.

He told me about a beautifully restored vintage steam locomotive traveling through western Pennsylvania as part of a nationwide tour.

If he could locate its schedule, perhaps I'd drive over to watch it pass.

While talking with Bob, one of my turkey friends quietly wandered into view behind the pool garden.

Naturally, I reached for the camera.

Young Squirrels Steal the Show

Just before noon, two young squirrels unexpectedly turned the yard into their own playground.

They chased one another...

Stopped...

Antagonized one another...

Chased again..

.

Their carefree antics resembled two children enjoying an afternoon play date.

They provided not only wonderful entertainment but also numerous photographic opportunities.

Eventually, one discovered what appeared to be a peanut and settled down for lunch while the other continued searching nearby.

The Cardinal Returns

Later in the afternoon, the elusive cardinal once again made a brief appearance.

This time he perched among the lower branches of the old oak tree near the back of the property.

Although farther away than usual, his brilliant crimson feathers stood out beautifully against the deep green foliage.

He remained only long enough for me to capture a couple of photographs, before quietly disappearing into the surrounding woods.

An Afternoon Nap and a Quiet Return Outdoors (5:19 PM)

After enjoying a brief nap in the living room recliner, I awoke feeling somewhat chilled by the air conditioning.

My first thought was to put on a jacket.

Instead...

I simply stepped outside.

The decision immediately proved worthwhile.

Although the sky remained mostly gray, the peacefulness of the deck quickly replaced the chill I'd felt indoors.

Doves conversed quietly through the trees while smooth jazz drifted from the kitchen.

Sometimes the simplest decision is the best one.

Checking on Family

Later in the evening I texted my niece Lindsey to thank her for thinking of me the previous day.

During our conversation she told me that my sister-in-law had finally returned home and they were helping her get settled.

I offered whatever assistance I might be able to provide.

When Lindsey mentioned that pizza was already on the menu for dinner, I decided to postpone delivering some fried chicken,

homemade wedding soup,

and freshly prepared corn salsa,

I had made earlier in theday. until tomorrow.

That way they could enjoy something entirely different after today's excitement had passed.

Sometimes helping is simply a matter of timing.

Quality Control

Of course...

Before anything could possibly leave my kitchen...

The final and most important stage of preparation still had to be completed.

Quality Control.

I prepared myself a plate consisting of freshly fried chicken accompanied by the homemade corn salsa prepared from the fresh farm corn I'd recently purchased.

The official Quality Control Report concluded:

✔ Fried Chicken — Approved

✔ Corn Salsa — Approved

✔ Outdoor Dining Experience — Approved

The chef was satisfied.

Why Did the Rabbit Cross the Road?

Around 5:40 PM another unexpected visitor appeared.

A young rabbit cautiously emerged along the roadside before carefully making its way across.

Camera in hand, I managed to photograph nearly every stage of its journey, from cautious hesitation to determined bounding, as it disappeared safely into the vegetation beyond.

It became yet another delightful chapter in today's growing wildlife journal.

Reflections

Today marked a year and a day since Fran left this world.

Although the sadness remains very real, today's experiences reminded me that life continues quietly offering moments worthy of gratitude.

A pair of doves...

Morning fog...

Blue sky breaking through...

Wild turkeys...

Playful squirrels...

An elusive cardinal...

A cautious rabbit...

Freshly prepared food...

A conversation with family...

A peaceful meal on the deck.

None of these moments were extraordinary by themselves.

Yet together they became a beautiful reminder that even beneath gray skies, life continues unfolding in quiet, meaningful ways for those willing to slow down long enough to notice.

As I reflected this evening, I realized something that has become increasingly apparent over the past year.

While I deeply miss sharing these moments. and these meals, with Fran, I also recognize that sharing remains one of the defining characteristics of my life.

Whether it's food, photographs, music, recipes, or simply observations from the deck, I've come to believe that life's greatest blessings become even richer when they're shared.

Perhaps that is why I continue writing.

Not merely to remember...

But to invite others to sit beside me, if only for a little while, and experience this remarkable little corner of the world through my eyes.

July 12, 2026

A Day Well Spent

The day began much as so many midsummer mornings have lately,quietly.

There was almost no moisture on the deck, giving the "Squeegee Team" a well earned morning off. Coffee in hand, I settled into my chair just as the old haymaker began peeking through the boughs of the pine tree. Doves cooed nearby while wild turkeys announced themselves somewhere beyond the woods. Smooth jazz drifted softly from the kitchen, creating the perfect soundtrack for another Morning Watch.

Even in such peaceful surroundings, however, my mind refused to remain still. Rather than simply enjoying the morning, it began planning the day ahead. The garden needed checking, vegetables might be ready for harvest, and I hoped to finally deliver the meal I'd prepared for my sister-in-law. Somewhere in those thoughts, another idea quietly appeared, a homemade wacky cake for dessert.

By eight o'clock the morning had fully awakened.

Sunlight spilled across the garden, the squirrels entertained themselves racing back and forth across the road, and the world seemed content to live entirely in the present.

Watching them reminded me that perhaps nature enjoys each moment far better than we humans often do.

Curiosity eventually drew me down into the garden where Mother Nature had been busy.

Four beautiful tomatoes, six frying peppers, three banana peppers, and five cucumbers waited to be harvested.

The zucchini blossoms glowed in the morning sunshine while tiny pollinators quietly continued their work.

After a brief battle with weeds, the July sun convinced me it was time to retreat indoors and prepare for a trip to the market.

Back home, I called my niece about bringing dinner over that evening.

She sounded overwhelmed, and I couldn't help but recognize the road she was only beginning to travel. Having walked that path myself after losing Fran, I knew there were no words that would truly help. Sometimes experience teaches us that compassion is often found in silence rather than advice.

While the cake baked and cooled,

I spent another perfect afternoon on the deck.

The weather couldn't have been much better, warm, comfortable, and blessed with a gentle breeze. The large planter beside me, which only a week earlier had looked tired and worn, had burst back into bloom after a little trimming, watering, and patience.

It reminded me that even struggling things sometimes simply need a little care before flourishing again.

The kitchen then became today's greatest adventure.

The chocolate cake baked beautifully, but the white frosting proved far more challenging.

After twenty or thirty minutes with a hand mixer, it remained stubbornly gritty. Finally, I called in the old KitchenAid, loaded the bowl, turned it on, and walked away.

Fifteen minutes later the transformation was nothing short of remarkable.

The frosting had become smooth, silky, and almost marshmallow, like.

After a brief rest in the refrigerator came the moment every wacky cake baker dreads,the chocolate topping. Somehow, this time, everything came together. The chocolate spread beautifully across the white layer with only the smallest reminders that this was homemade.

Looking at the finished cake, I couldn't help but smile. Sometimes patience really is the secret ingredient.

At 4:30 I loaded the car with Italian wedding soup, fried chicken, corn salsa, and the finished wacky cake before heading to my sister-in-law's home.

Dinner was served buffet style, and before long my nieces and nephew gathered around the kitchen counter. The conversation was warm, the laughter genuine, and everyone seemed grateful for the meal.

Before dinner I visited my sister-in-law, now resting in a hospital bed in the living room. Seeing her there brought back vivid memories of Fran's final days. She struggled to speak and drifted in and out of sleep. Our visit was brief, but sometimes simply sitting beside someone says enough.

Returning home, I intended to finish my chores, but another perfect summer evening intervened.

I settled onto the deck where an old friend unexpectedly called. We spent nearly an hour catching up on years gone by before making plans for him and his wife to visit for dinner. I even offered to help draw the plans for the house they hope to build.

Soon afterward my daughter called, filling me in on her day before Neal rode by on his bicycle. He had never tasted wacky cake, so naturally I invited him in for a sample slice and another to take home. With my daughter dieting and my son-in-law unable to eat gluten, sharing the remaining cake seemed far better than letting it go to waste.

Just as I prepared to go indoors, another unexpected visitor appeared.

An elderly woman walking down the street stopped to tell me her car had broken down in the middle school parking lot. Unfortunately, I know almost nothing about automobiles, so there was little practical help I could offer. I suggested she contact a family member and reassured her that leaving the car overnight in a well-lit lot monitored by cameras would likely be perfectly safe.

Sometimes reassurance is the only assistance we have to give.

Finally, after washing every dish, preparing tomorrow morning's coffee, and putting the kitchen back in order, I found myself in my recliner at 9:27 PM for the first time all day.

Completely exhausted.

Yet strangely content.

Looking back, I realized the day had never really been about baking a cake.

It had been about sharing.

Sharing vegetables harvested from the garden.

Sharing homemade soup, fried chicken, corn salsa, and dessert.

Sharing memories with family.

Sharing conversation with an old friend.

Sharing cake with a neighbor.

Sharing time with my daughter.

Sharing reassurance with a stranger.

Perhaps that's why the day felt so full.

The richest days often aren't measured by what we accomplish for ourselves, but by the pieces of ourselves we quietly give away to others.

July 13, 2026

5:50 AM

I ended up spending the night in the recliner again, waking briefly around 5:15 before finally getting up at about 5:40.

My first glance toward the patio doors told me daylight had already begun to arrive. I wandered into the kitchen, turned on the coffee, and opened the patio door.

Much to my surprise, the air was remarkably comfortable, 66 degrees with a humidity of 89 percent. A gentle southeast breeze of about three miles per hour drifted across the deck.

The forecast is calling for sunshine throughout the day, something I haven't seen for a while. Whether it actually unfolds that way remains to be seen, but it's certainly an encouraging thought.

The squeegee team received another reprieve this morning. It took only half a paper towel to dry the table completely, leaving the towel barely damp.

Now I'm sitting here in almost complete silence, interrupted only occasionally by the distant cooing of a pair of doves.

The coffee is fresh. The air is cool and clean. Very little preparation was required to settle into my favorite seat on the deck, and the forecast promises a day full of sunshine.

It seems like a pretty good way to begin a Monday.

6:37 AM

My fine feathered turkey friends have begun their morning commute, confidently crossing the roadway as though they own it.

I've watched them often enough to know they seem to have their own schedule, and this morning they're right on time.

Just two minutes later, at 6:39, the old haymaker finally makes his appearance, slipping through the branches and announcing the beginning of what promises to be a beautiful day.

After several mornings of clouds and dampness, the sunshine feels especially welcome. Between a fresh cup of coffee, a cool breeze, the distant cooing of doves, a pair of passing turkeys, and the first rays of sunlight filtering through the trees, it's difficult to ask for a much better beginning to a Monday morning.

6:56 AM

It's been about half an hour since I removed the fleece jacket I was wearing when I first came out to sit on the deck.

The air certainly feels much cooler now in just a short-sleeved T-shirt than it did with the fleece on. Still, I'm fairly certain that within another half hour or so, once the old haymaker climbs above the treetops, the umbrella in the center of the table will be going up. The very sunshine that now feels so pleasant will soon be providing enough warmth to make a bit of shade much more comfortable.

It's one of those mornings when you can almost feel the day changing, minute by minute.

7:00 AM

The sky has settled into a steady blue now, and my attention has shifted from the heavens to the landscape below.

It's no longer the sunrise itself that holds my attention, but the way the old haymaker paints the world around me.

The sunlight filtering through the trees casts long shadows across the lawn, transforming an ordinary patch of grass into something far more interesting.

Every branch seems to leave its own signature on the ground.

Looking farther to the southeast, the sunlight has only begun to crest the hillside.

The upper lawn glows warmly while the garden below still rests quietly in the morning shade, patiently waiting its turn.

Sometimes the beauty of a sunrise isn't found by looking directly at the sun at all. Sometimes it's found in watching what the light leaves behind.

1:53 PM

I just relocated to the deck, settling into my chair beneath the open umbrella after about a two-hour nap.

Apparently, sleeping in the recliner at night just isn't doing it for me. Each of the past several nights I've spent there has left me feeling noticeably more tired during the day than when I actually sleep in my bed. Feeling tired isn't unusual these days, but this seems to be taking it a step further.

It's currently a warm 84 degrees with the humidity at a comfortable 53 percent. A light southeast breeze of about five miles per hour makes the warmth much more tolerable than the thermometer alone would suggest.

There isn't much in today's must-do column, but there are a couple of things I'd like to take care of before evening arrives.

One of them is the bathroom sink. I've noticed the drain has slowed considerably, and since I usually clean it out a couple of times a year, it's probably overdue.

For now, though, I'm content to sit here a little longer with a fresh cup of coffee, enjoying another beautiful summer afternoon before heading inside to tackle that small project.

Earlier this morning I mentioned the temperature difference between where I was sitting at the table and the glider about halfway down the deck. Now the sun has moved far enough around the house that it's beginning to create a sharp dividing line. Even with the umbrella open, about two feet of the chair remains in direct sunlight, just as the photograph shows.

By around three o'clock, as is usually the case during the summer, the sun will have moved far enough west that the entire back of the house will be in shade.

By then, I hope the bathroom sink will be draining freely again, and I'll probably find myself back out here once more, enjoying another quiet stretch of the afternoon.

2:09 PM

One thing that has become very apparent this Monday afternoon is just how quiet it is.

Apparently, the machinery that had been operating for weeks just beyond the tree line featured in so many of my photographs has finally completed its mission. The constant banging, crashing, clanging, and grinding that had become part of the day's soundtrack has come to an end, at least for today.

I'm hopeful they've finished everything they intended to accomplish. Over the past couple of days the noise had already diminished considerably, and today there isn't a sound coming from that direction.

With the temperature continuing to climb, even my regular furry and feathered friends seem to be seeking refuge in the shade. Very few, if any, have made an appearance this afternoon. I can't really blame them. They probably have more sense than I do.

If this quiet continues, it has all the makings of another day in paradise.

2:23 PM

Since I managed to sleep through lunch, I decided to have something light before beginning my plumbing adventure with the bathroom sink.

Oddly enough, I found myself reaching for a bowl of cottage cheese topped with peaches.

It's funny how our tastes change over time.

Fran always liked cottage cheese, but we seldom had it in the house because I wasn't much of a fan. Every once in a while she'd buy some, but I usually passed.

She would often comment on how refreshing, light, yet satisfying it was. I, on the other hand, jokingly referred to it as ABC food.

The first time I called it that she looked at me with a puzzled expression and asked, "What on earth are you talking about?"

I couldn't resist.

"ABC food," I replied. "Already Been Chewed."

She promptly informed me that I didn't know what I was talking about, and that was pretty much the end of the discussion.

As time went on, especially during the last year before Fran passed, I found myself buying cottage cheese regularly, not for me, but for her. It had become one of the few foods she could comfortably eat. As her COPD progressed, even chewing became exhausting, and something as simple as cottage cheese provided nourishment without demanding much effort.

Now, almost without realizing it, I've developed a taste for it myself.

For someone who once wouldn't touch the stuff, I not only tolerate it now, I actually enjoy it. It's refreshing, satisfying, and makes for a quick meal when I don't feel like cooking.

I suppose, after all these years, I've finally developed an appreciation for my ABCs.

8:01 PM

It's currently 8:01 PM, and I just finished having a bite to eat for dinner. Nothing fancy,a meatloaf sandwich (Meatloaf provided by my Friend Bob from Greensburg) and a handful of chips. It fulfilled the requirements.

Earlier this afternoon I managed to take apart the bathroom sink drain, clean it thoroughly, and put everything back together. Thankfully, the project went smoothly, and it's draining the way it should once again.

Other than that, I really haven't done much since.

I'm back out on the deck, once again taking up residence in my favorite chair as I bid farewell to another gorgeous summer day.

About an hour and a half ago, my daughter called to check in. As always, she wanted to know how I was doing, what I had been up to, and what plans I had for tomorrow.

Once again, I reminded her that I don't usually plan that far in advance.

We talked for fifteen or twenty minutes, and after we hung up I wandered back into the house and cleaned up the minor mess I had made in the kitchen, while preparing something for dinner.

Other than making a few additions to today's blog, I really don't have anything else planned for the evening.

It's been one of those wonderfully laid-back days, and I see no reason to change course now.

July 14, 2026

Morning Watch

The day began early, with me cutting myself out of bed at around 5:00 AM. After taking care of the usual morning essentials, I settled into my customary seat at the deck table by 5:33 AM to witness another day coming to life.

It was a beautiful morning, 67 degrees with 90% humidity, yet surprisingly dry.

For what seems like the first time in quite a while, there wasn't even a trace of dew on the deck furniture. The table was completely dry, eliminating the need for either paper towels or the morning appearance of the "squeegee team." Considering the forecast was calling for sunshine all day and a high near 91 degrees, I knew any outdoor chores would need to be completed early before the heat became oppressive.

As I sat quietly with only a T-shirt on, I found the morning air almost refreshingly cool. In fact, for a brief time I considered going inside for a light jacket before reminding myself that the warmth of the rising sun would soon take care of that.

The previous evening had ended much earlier than expected. After sitting down in my recliner to watch television, I fell asleep around 9:00 PM. I briefly woke around 1:30 AM, realizing I hadn't written a single blog entry for the day. Exhaustion quickly won the argument, however, and I decided yesterday's reflections could simply wait until today. The one thing I did force myself to accomplish before returning to sleep was preparing the coffee maker. Experience has taught me that the last thing I want to deal with first thing in the morning is making coffee. Being able to simply push one button and let it brew while I tend to my morning routine has become one of those small comforts I genuinely appreciate.

By 6:31 AM, the old haymaker had climbed high enough above the horizon to peek through the pine and oak trees near the back of the property.

It is a sight I witness nearly every morning, sometimes hidden behind clouds, sometimes brilliantly visible, but always taking place whether I can see it or not. Even after countless mornings spent on this same deck, I continue to marvel at the quiet beauty unfolding before me.

A couple of hours later, around 8:23 AM, I made my way down to the garden and gave everything a thorough soaking in anticipation of the hot, dry afternoon ahead. Returning to the deck, I spent a few more peaceful moments enjoying the comfortable weather before planning to move to the front yard to water the flowers, the recently planted crêpe myrtle tree, and the ferns. Once those chores were complete, my thoughts turned toward preparing dinner to take over to my sister-in-law's house, hoping to spare my niece and nephew from having to worry about cooking while caring for their mother. Although I hadn't yet decided on the menu, I suspected there was already plenty in the house to prepare something satisfying without another trip to the market.

Around 8:30 AM, my attention shifted from the garden to the steady stream of young high school students jogging past the house. Judging by their numbers and determination, I assumed they were members of the school's cross-country or track program preparing for the upcoming fall season.

Watching them brought back memories of my own younger years.

Although I was never much of a runner, I recalled attempting to become one in my early thirties after moving back to the Pittsburgh area from the Pocono Mountains. One particularly ambitious run left me barely able to walk for days.

The experience reached its peak one morning when I arrived at work only to discover the building elevator was out of service. Climbing four flights of stairs to my office remains one of the more painful physical memories I have.

My thoughts soon drifted to far happier memories from our years in the Poconos. Back then, Fran and I had purchased matching ten-speed touring bicycles, each equipped with a child seat so our daughter could ride behind one of us and our son behind the other. Together we spent countless summer days cycling through the quiet lake community where we lived. Often we'd stop to gather wild blueberries growing near the lakeshore, filling containers before heading home where Fran would transform our harvest into the most wonderful blueberry pies imaginable.

Those truly were special days.

As the years passed, work responsibilities gradually replaced regular exercise. By the time I returned home from teaching, and quite often second and third side jobs, tending to household responsibilities, and completing whatever projects demanded attention, there was simply little energy remaining for running or cycling.

Today, something as simple as walking from the deck to the garden to water the vegetables, then making my way around to the front of the house to care for the flowers, is enough to leave me needing a lengthy period of rest before tackling anything else.

Growing older certainly has its rewards, but physically speaking... sometimes it simply isn't much fun.

Yet despite those realities, mornings like this continue to remind me how fortunate I am. The sunrise still arrives faithfully each day. The garden continues to grow. The birds still sing. There is coffee on the table, family to care for, and another day waiting to be lived.

And for that, I remain grateful.

Tuesday Afternoon & Evening – A Meal Made with Love

By early afternoon, after finishing the morning's outdoor chores and spending a little more time enjoying the beautiful weather from the deck, I made my way into the kitchen to decide what I would prepare to take over to my sister-in-law's house.

After giving it some thought, I remembered the six-pound pork butt I had purchased a few days earlier with the intention of cutting it up and freezing it for future meals. Rather than putting the entire roast away, I decided it would provide the perfect opportunity to make one of the family longtime favorites, city chicken.

As I broke down the roast, I cut enough cubes for eight generous skewers, setting aside the remaining pork in two larger pieces for the freezer to be used another day, perhaps in a pot of spaghetti sauce.

Rather than discarding the generous pieces of fat trimmed from the roast, I rendered them slowly in a skillet, creating beautifully flavored pork fat that would become the cooking medium for browning the city chicken.

It's an old-fashioned approach, but one that produces a richness that's difficult to duplicate any other way.

The pork skewers were dipped into a buttermilk, mayonnaise, and egg wash

before being generously coated with seasoned Italian-style panko breadcrumbs.

Once assembled, each skewer was carefully browned on all sides,

in the rendered pork fat until a beautiful golden crust developed.

While the city chicken browned, I prepared the sauce by combining a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup with additional buttermilk and the flavorful pan drippings left behind from browning the pork.

Fresh mushrooms were sliced and added to the mix.

A layer of the mushroom sauce was spread across the bottom of a foil baking pan before the browned skewers were nestled into place.

The remaining mushroom sauce was poured over the top, followed by another generous layer of fresh sliced mushrooms, creating a casserole ready to finish slowly in the oven.

By 6:40 PM, I had delivered dinner to my sister-in-law's house.

I had expected my niece Lindsey to be there, but she had already stopped by earlier in the afternoon and returned home, leaving my niece Stacey and nephew Scott there to enjoy the meal.

As I drove home, I couldn't help but feel good knowing they wouldn't have to concern themselves with preparing dinner after everything they've been dealing with lately. Sometimes the simplest way to help someone isn't through words at all, but by placing a homemade meal on the table and allowing them, if only for one evening, to simply sit down and eat.

Tuesday Evening – From Garden to Table

Once the city chicken came out of the oven, it looked every bit as good as I had hoped. The mushroom sauce had browned beautifully around the edges, the mushrooms had softened into the gravy, and after sampling a piece, I was pleased to discover it tasted every bit as good as it looked.

Dinner, however, wasn't going to stop there.

Earlier in the day I had been out in the garden watering everything before the heat settled in. Now it was time to enjoy some of the rewards of those efforts. I gathered fresh lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, onions, and cucumbers before bringing everything into the kitchen to prepare a fresh garden salad.

Although nearly everything came directly from my own garden,

I decided to add a few store-bought strawberries, giving the salad a little extra sweetness and color.

To accompany the city chicken, I also prepared a rice pasta and broccoli side dish,

creating a meal that was both hearty and well balanced.

I couldn't resist adding one more treat.

The cantaloupe I had cut up the previous evening had spent a couple of days ripening on the deck table before I finally sliced into it. The moment I cut through it, juice poured from the fruit, a sure sign it had reached nearly perfect ripeness. I packed about a quart of the sweet melon to take along as well.

On my way to my sister-in-law's house, I made one final stop.

Curiosity got the better of me, and I pulled into the Crumble Cookie store to pick up dessert.

I ordered a half-dozen cookies, thinking they might cost somewhere around ten or fifteen dollars.

I was wrong.

When the cashier announced the total, just over $24, I was more than a little surprised. There's no denying the cookies were beautifully made and absolutely delicious, but I have to admit they're priced more like gourmet pastries than cookies. As much as I enjoyed them, I suspect this may have been my first and last visit, for quite some time.

By the time everything was packed together, dinner had become quite a feast.

City chicken smothered in mushroom gravy.

Rice pasta with broccoli.

A fresh garden salad made almost entirely from vegetables picked only moments before.

Sweet, perfectly ripe cantaloupe.

And a box of gourmet cookies for dessert.

As I looked over everything before leaving the house, I couldn't help but smile. Earlier that morning I wasn't even sure what I was going to prepare. A few hours later, the kitchen had once again become busy with chopping, breading, frying, baking, washing vegetables, assembling salads, and packing everything up to share.

Sometimes the best meals aren't the ones that are planned days in advance.

Sometimes they simply begin with opening the refrigerator, walking through the garden, and asking yourself, "What can I make today that might brighten someone else's day?"

Today, I think I found the answer.

June 15, 2026

5:34 AM

The day is off to a slow beginning after a rather restless night's sleep. I found myself awake several times after about 4:00 AM, each attempt to drift back to sleep proving less successful than the last. Finally, at around 5:00 AM, I decided to give in, climbed out of bed, and headed for the kitchen to pour my first cup of coffee.

The moment I opened the patio door, it felt as though I had opened the door to a sauna. The warmth and moisture rushed inside immediately. At this hour it's already 70°F with 91% humidity and a gentle 5 mph southwest breeze. Today's forecast calls for a high of 93°F, mostly sunny skies, with clouds drifting through during the afternoon.

Stepping outside, it became obvious that Mother Nature had been busy overnight. There aren't any puddles to contend with, but every surface on the deck is coated with a generous layer of morning dew. The paper towels will once again have to earn their keep before I can settle into my usual seat at the table for the morning watch.

The morning sky carries the soft colors of dawn beneath a blanket of humid haze.

It's a quiet beginning to what promises to become another hot midsummer day. Even through the warmth, there's still something comforting about these first few moments of daylight before the world fully awakens.

As for today's agenda, nothing in particular is demanding my attention at the moment. With temperatures expected to climb into the 90s, I doubt I'll be spending much time outdoors beyond my usual observations. If history is any indication, the kitchen will probably become today's destination. Somehow, cooking, or at least preparing something enjoyable to eat, has a way of finding its place in the day's plans.

For now, though, there's fresh coffee in hand, the promise of another sunrise unfolding beyond the deck, and a quiet house that invites me to simply sit for a while and welcome another new day.

6:06 AM

It's now 6:06 AM, and somewhere beyond the tree line to my northeast, the old haymaker has already climbed above the horizon. Because of the buildings and trees that stand between us, however, he has yet to make his official appearance.

Panning my view from east to southeast, I can't find a cloud anywhere in the sky.

Instead, a pair of long, sunlit contrails stretch upward from the horizon, almost as if they were pointing the way toward the sunrise itself. Their bright white streaks stand in sharp contrast to the soft blue morning sky, quietly announcing the beginning of another beautiful day.

After drying off the deck table and one of the chairs with a handful of paper towels, I finally settled into my usual seat to commence this morning's watch. It's on the warm side of comfortable, and the heavy moisture in the air makes its presence known almost immediately. Fortunately, there's just enough of a southwest breeze moving across the deck to keep the morning from feeling completely oppressive.

The grass still glistens with dew, the trees remain nearly motionless except for the occasional stirring of a leaf, and the familiar sounds of another day awakening have yet to fully arrive. For the moment, there is only quiet anticipation as I wait for the first rays of sunlight to work their way through the trees and officially welcome another midsummer morning.

For now, coffee in hand, there is nowhere else I'd rather be. The morning watch continues.

6:16 AM

At 6:16 AM, a muted orange glow is beginning to take shape just above the tree line, courtesy of the old haymaker, who continues his slow climb above the eastern horizon despite remaining hidden from view.

Although I still can't see the sun itself, its influence is becoming more apparent with each passing minute. The soft light is gradually washing over the eastern sky, replacing the cool blue tones of dawn with gentle shades of peach and gold. The humid morning air seems to diffuse that light, giving the horizon an almost watercolor appearance.

Down below, the garden still lingers in shadow, patiently waiting for the first direct rays of sunlight to spill over the treetops and awaken another midsummer day. The overnight dew continues to cling to every blade of grass and every leaf, quietly reflecting what little light has found its way into the valley.

The morning remains remarkably peaceful. The slight southwest breeze is just enough to make the warmth and humidity bearable, and for now, there is little to disturb the silence beyond the promise of another hot July day waiting just over the horizon.

The morning watch continues.

6:45 AM

It's now 6:45 AM, and at long last the old haymaker has made his official appearance, peering through the limbs of the oak and the boughs of the pine tree.

After spending the better part of the morning announcing his arrival with soft colors painted across the eastern sky, he's finally broken through, casting his warm golden light across the landscape.

It's remarkably quiet this morning. There is very little noise of any kind. Even the birds seem content to ease into the day rather than burst into it with their usual chorus. I can see quite a few of them making their way from tree to tree, already tending to whatever business occupies a bird's morning, but they're doing so in near silence. Their wings seem to be carrying the conversation today, not their voices.

Perhaps the heavy humidity has muted more than just the distant landscape. There seems to be a stillness hanging over everything, as though the entire neighborhood is quietly gathering itself before the heat of another midsummer day begins to settle in.

For now, the only constant is the gentle glow of the morning sun filtering through the trees, a fresh cup of coffee beside me, and the peaceful solitude that has become such a treasured part of each new day. The morning watch continues.

7:18 AM

It's now 7:18 AM, and just a few moments ago the wild turkeys began their familiar morning migration.

Emerging from the wooded area behind the house, they made their way through the yard, crossed the road, and disappeared into my neighbor's property.

From there, who knows where their daily travels will take them.

This has become one of those quiet rituals of summer that I always look forward to witnessing. They never seem to be in much of a hurry, strolling along with a confidence that suggests they've traveled this route many times before. Each bird pauses occasionally, surveying its surroundings before taking a few more deliberate steps, as though there is an unseen destination known only to them.

The early morning sunlight couldn't have arrived at a better time. Its golden rays illuminated their feathers, highlighting the intricate patterns and subtle bronze tones that often go unnoticed from a distance. Against the deep green backdrop of the woods, they seemed almost to glow.

It's amazing how something as ordinary as a small flock of wild turkeys crossing the road can become part of the rhythm of a place. Over the years, these daily visitors have become as much a part of my morning watch as the sunrise itself. They appear without fanfare, make their quiet procession across the landscape, and then melt back into the woods, leaving only the memory of another peaceful encounter with nature.

As I watched them disappear from sight, I couldn't help but smile. The old haymaker was finally above the trees, the birds had completed another chapter of their morning journey, and another beautiful midsummer day was officially underway.

The morning watch continues.

At around 8:15 AM I caught this little guy racing across the roadway, from the oak tree on the back of our property toward our neighbors, on the opposite side of the street.

By around 9:30 AM, after doing my morning watering tour of the garden and the flowers at the front and sides of the house, I decided it would be a good time for some breakfast.

Once again I hedged toward my usual standby of fruit, yogurt, chia seeds and crunchy granola.

Always light, nutritious, satisfying and delicious...and on a hot and humid morning like today, it was consumed in air conditioned comfort, at the dining room table.

1:21 PM 

After finishing a late lunch, I wandered back out onto the deck to see whether the afternoon had become any more inviting. The thermometer had climbed to 90 degrees, with a feels-like temperature of 91, while the humidity remained stubbornly high at 62 percent. The wind had shifted from the west to the east, but because the house shelters the deck, very little of the breeze found its way to where I was sitting.

I spent most of the latter part of the morning working at the computer, choosing the comfort of air conditioning over battling the oppressive heat and humidity outdoors. Looking skyward, however, it was hard not to admire the beautiful summer clouds drifting across a rich blue sky, sunlight spilling from behind them in brilliant rays. Sometimes nature paints a picture that promises comfort while quietly reminding us that appearances can be deceiving.

I'll likely remain outside for a short while, simply enjoying a breath of fresh air and the view across the yard. But as the afternoon grows warmer, the cool comfort of the house becomes increasingly difficult to resist. Some summer days are meant for working in the garden; others are simply meant for sitting quietly, appreciating the view, and knowing when it's time to head back inside.

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 perhaps 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 16, 2026

July 16

The day began as so many of my mornings do, quietly seated on the deck with a fresh cup of coffee in hand. By 7:25 AM, I was already working on my fourth cup as memories from more than forty years ago came flooding back. When Fran and I built this house in 1984, we would often park nearby just to watch the construction workers as our future home slowly took shape.

Back then we were the youngsters on the block, surrounded by older neighbors who welcomed us warmly. We raised our children here, celebrated countless milestones, and built a lifetime of memories. Today, nearly all of those original neighbors are gone, and I have gradually become what they once were, the old guy on the block.

The morning wildlife parade continued shortly afterward as several members of the local turkey clan casually crossed the road just beyond the deck.

As always, they behaved as though the roadway belonged exclusively to them, strolling across without the slightest concern for passing traffic. Their confidence and deliberate pace never fail to amuse me.

Not long afterward, a young gray squirrel provided another bit of entertainment, and concern. He repeatedly darted back and forth across the road, seemingly playing a dangerous game of tag with passing automobiles.

I could only hope his youthful enthusiasm would not eventually be met with tragedy, because despite his confidence, he would certainly be no match for a moving vehicle.

As I prepared to head down to the garden around 8:00 AM, another familiar visitor appeared grazing quietly in the clover beside the house.

Groundhogs are plentiful on our hilltop, and over the years they have become regular adversaries whenever the garden begins producing vegetables. I couldn't help but remember one particularly persistent groundhog from several summers ago that transformed my carefully tended garden into his own private buffet. I spent what must have been nearly $500 trying every humane method imaginable to discourage him from returning. Eventually, nature settled the matter itself when I later found a rather robust groundhog along the roadside near the school. While I could never be certain it was the same culprit, I couldn't help but suspect that my old nemesis had finally met his fate.

Much of the afternoon was devoted to an unexpected battle with technology. What should have been a simple transfer of the $300 monthly payment through Venmo became an hours long exercise in frustration. After countless unsuccessful login attempts and repeated error messages, I eventually discovered that repeatedly pressing zero while navigating Venmo's automated phone system finally connected me with an actual customer service representative. Over the course of nearly two and a half hours, I spoke with three different representatives, the last of whom escalated my case to the engineering department.

The mystery deepened because I could log into my account from my desktop computer and iPad, see my $300 payment sitting there, yet had no option to transfer the funds to my bank account. Even more frustrating, the Venmo app on my new iPhone refused to open at all. Then, almost by accident, after reopening the app and exploring further, I tapped the "Me" tab and suddenly found my balance displayed along with the long missing "Transfer to Bank" option. My linked bank account appeared, I initiated the transfer, and my Venmo balance immediately showed zero. Whether the engineering team quietly corrected something behind the scenes or the app finally refreshed itself properly remains unknown, but after nearly two days of aggravation, it finally appeared that the problem had resolved itself.

Earlier in the day, I also made another batch of fresh corn salsa.

The first batch had disappeared in just two days, so it seemed only fitting to replenish the supply while fresh local corn was readily available.

By early evening, I returned to the deck hoping for a little peace and fresh air, only to discover that the air quality had deteriorated dramatically. The Air Quality Index had climbed into the red at 191.

With virtually no breeze to disperse the smoke, the atmosphere resembled a heavy fog. The familiar blue sky had completely disappeared behind a blanket of gray haze, making the outdoors far less inviting than usual.

While sitting outside, Kim called, and we spent about forty-five minutes talking primarily about Linda's declining health and the tremendous burden now resting on the shoulders of her three children, who have become her primary caregivers. Having walked that difficult road myself, with help from my daughter, while caring for Fran, I understand all too well the emotional and physical toll caregiving demands. Although I don't believe they fully realize it yet, I also recognize what a blessing it is that there are three of them sharing those responsibilities. Trying to shoulder that burden mostly alone can become almost overwhelming.

As the evening draws to a close, I'll likely spend a little time cleaning up the kitchen after preparing the corn salsa, finish today's blog entries, and then settle into the recliner. If history is any indication, I'll probably be asleep within ten minutes of sitting down.

Today was one of those days that wandered effortlessly between memory, nature, frustration, family, and gratitude. From reflecting on the beginning of life in this home over forty years ago, to watching turkeys, squirrels, and groundhogs go about their daily routines, to finally finding resolution after an exhausting struggle with technology, it served as another reminder that:

even the most ordinary days have stories worth remembering.

July 17, 2026

Today was a day defined by contrast. The weather appeared inviting, but the atmosphere told a much different story.

A persistent blanket of smoke left the sky washed in gray, with an Air Quality Index climbing into the hazardous range. It was one of those rare summer days when even nature seemed to retreat.

The morning began early with another visit to the garden around 7:30. Everything received a thorough soaking before I returned indoors for breakfast. Not long afterward, I settled into the recliner and drifted off to sleep with little effort, waking again around 10 o'clock. Once awake, I watered the flowers on the front side of the house before turning my attention to several basil plants that had been thriving in the small greenhouse on the south side of the house.

Although the basil had been growing exceptionally well, I noticed it was beginning to get a little leggy. Rather than planting it directly into the garden, I carried the pots onto the deck, trimmed the plants back, and placed the cuttings into water. Within another week or so those cuttings should develop roots, providing another dozen or more young basil plants ready to be transplanted into the garden planters.

The larger leaves will eventually find their way into one of my favorite summer pasta dishes. There is simply something about the aroma of fresh basil that words cannot adequately describe. It is one of those unmistakable scents that instantly says "summer."

By early afternoon I finally ventured outdoors for the first time to simply sit and relax. The temperature was a pleasant 83 degrees with humidity around 53 percent and only the slightest southeast breeze. Under normal circumstances it would have been an ideal summer afternoon, but the Air Quality Index remained an unhealthy 263, leaving a visible haze hanging over the distant hills. The beautiful view from the deck was noticeably muted, reminding me that appearances can sometimes be deceiving.

An iced tea accompanied me on the deck while I considered making a trip to the market for additional tomatoes. The plan was to combine those with tomatoes from the garden, fresh basil, garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper to prepare one of our family's favorite pasta dishes served at room temperature. I also thought about delivering some to my nieces and nephew as they continue caring for their mother during these difficult days. As the afternoon unfolded, however, neither the market trip nor the pasta ever materialized.

Perhaps the most unusual part of the afternoon was the complete absence of wildlife. For nearly twenty minutes I sat quietly without seeing a single bird, squirrel, rabbit, turkey, or deer. Even the neighborhood walkers and runners who normally pass throughout the day were nowhere to be seen. It was as though every living creature had wisely sought shelter from the smoky conditions. Only once did a lone cardinal briefly land on the deck railing before flying off again.

The silence was almost eerie.

Later in the afternoon I considered returning to the garden to plant another crop of cucumbers but decided against it. With the air quality remaining so poor, there seemed little sense in spending additional time outdoors.

After dinner I vacuumed the kitchen, dining room and living room floors, cleaning up the grass clippings I had tracked into the house during my trips outside. While sitting quietly afterward, my thoughts drifted back to Fran. During so many summer evenings she would smile and say, "Let's go get ice cream tonight." More often than I care to admit, my response was that I was simply too tired, although occasionally I would give in. Looking back now, I only wish I had accepted her invitation more often.

The thought actually crossed my mind to go for ice cream this evening, but I couldn't bring myself to go alone. Some memories are comforting; others are still far too tender. Tonight simply wasn't the evening to revisit that particular place.

As the day drew toward its close, I reflected on how quiet everything had been, not only the landscape around me but life itself. Days like today naturally invite thoughts about loneliness and about finding purpose after losing the person with whom I shared more than five decades. Those moments still arrive unexpectedly, often without warning, replaying memories that cannot be changed.

Yet even in those moments I remind myself that tomorrow is another day.

The market will still be there.

The tomatoes will still be waiting.

The basil will continue rooting.

The garden will continue growing.

And perhaps, little by little, so will I.

July 18, 2026

Morning Reflection

The day began much as many recent mornings have, with a restless night's sleep interrupted by leg cramps and frequent awakenings. By dawn, thunderstorms had settled over the area, bringing heavy rain, vivid lightning, and rolling thunder. As I sat indoors listening to nature's symphony, I couldn't help but think of Fran. She always loved rainy mornings, especially when she could burrow beneath the blankets and simply listen to the rain and thunder. The memory was bittersweet but comforting, reminding me once again how certain weather conditions have the remarkable ability to awaken treasured memories.

Despite the storms, the weather remained unpredictable throughout the day. At one point around midday, the slate gray skies suddenly gave way to brilliant blue, sunshine poured across the landscape, and the rain disappeared as though it had never existed.

The transformation was astonishing, lasting just long enough to allow me to enjoy the outdoors before the atmosphere began another dramatic shift later in the afternoon.

Earlier in the day I sought advice regarding a couple of skin on salmon fillets I recently purchased. Having enjoyed blackened salmon in restaurants but never prepared it myself, I gathered information on seasonings, cooking techniques, and how best to achieve a flavorful blackened crust while preserving the moist interior. It's certainly a meal I'll be trying in the near future.

The brief break in the weather allowed me to spend about an hour working in the garden. Today's harvest was modest, one zucchini, one tomato, and a handful of peppers, but gardening isn't always about the quantity of vegetables. I also turned the soil beneath the trellises in preparation for planting another crop of cucumbers. The current vines are nearing the end of their productive life, and by the time fresh tomatoes are reaching their peak, I hope another generation of cucumbers will be ready for summer salads.

Not long after returning indoors, I glanced back outside and noticed a familiar visitor quietly grazing beneath the deck. A groundhog had wandered into the backyard. Carefully reopening the screen door, I managed to photograph him through the deck railing without disturbing his meal.

Two of the three photographs turned out especially well and provided another enjoyable wildlife encounter from the comfort of home.

Throughout the afternoon, the weather continued its ever changing performance. Winds increased steadily while clouds built once again from the west. Shortly before dinner, I noticed three wild turkeys feeding near the tree line beyond the garden,

another reminder that wildlife continues to share this little corner of the world with me almost daily.

Today's dinner became much more than simply preparing a meal. It was a journey back more than fifty five years.

Using tomatoes and basil freshly harvested from the garden, I prepared one of Fran's family's treasured summer traditions, a remarkably simple uncooked tomato, garlic, basil, olive oil, and salt sauce served over freshly cooked pasta.

The tomatoes were briefly blanched only to loosen their skins before being peeled and crushed by hand.

Fresh basil from the garden, garlic mashed in a mortar, organic extra-virgin olive oil, and Himalayan pink salt were gently combined with the tomatoes and allowed to rest while the pasta cooked.

As I prepared dinner, I found myself remembering exactly how I first encountered this family recipe many decades ago.

During our college years, while Fran was working in a bakery one summer, I arrived to pick her up after work. As soon as she climbed into the car, she greeted me with a kiss. Pulling away, I immediately asked, "Whoa...what in the world have you been eating?" She burst into laughter before explaining that she had been enjoying her family's fresh tomato, garlic, and basil mixture made from tomatoes grown by her Uncle D. My very first introduction to that beloved family recipe wasn't from a bowl of pasta at all, it came by way of a kiss from the woman I loved. Later, Uncle D himself patiently showed me exactly how the family prepared it, and more than fifty-five years later I continue making it exactly as he taught me, now using vegetables from my own garden.

Dinner itself was every bit as satisfying as the memories that accompanied it. A generous serving of thin pasta dressed simply with the fresh tomato mixture and finished with grated Parmesan provided another reminder that some of life's finest meals depend not on complexity, but on fresh ingredients, family traditions, and the memories they preserve.

The loaf of Italian bread sitting on the kitchen counter eventually found its way to the table to ensure not a single drop of the flavorful tomato juices remained behind.

As evening approached, another line of storms swept into the area. Rain began suddenly while I sat on the deck, forcing me indoors just as tornado warnings were issued for Westmoreland County. Fortunately, by that point dinner preparations were nearly complete, and retreating inside also prevented the pasta water from boiling nearly dry.

By 8:00 this evening the rain had once again subsided, but the wind continued to intensify dramatically. From the comfort of my recliner I watched the treetops sway in powerful gusts while distant thunder rolled somewhere beyond the horizon.

The dishes had been washed, tomorrow morning's coffee prepared, and the day's responsibilities completed. Outside, the weather remained unsettled, with dark clouds converging from nearly every direction, but indoors there was a comforting sense that the day had reached a peaceful conclusion.

Looking back, today's greatest gift wasn't the beautiful weather between storms, nor the wildlife that wandered through the yard, nor even the delicious dinner that graced the table.

It was the realization that a simple bowl of fresh tomatoes, garlic, basil, olive oil, and pasta continues to connect the present with a summer afternoon more than fifty-five years ago, a reminder that some family traditions never fade, and that:

the sweetest memories sometimes begin with nothing more than a kiss.

July 19, 2026

Today unfolded at a comfortable pace, offering a welcome balance of family, friendship, beautiful weather, and simple pleasures. It was one of those days that didn't demand much but quietly rewarded slowing down long enough to enjoy it

.

A Quiet Morning Awakens

The day began later than usual, with a welcome opportunity to sleep until around 6:30 AM after briefly waking during the early morning hours. The patio door thermometer showed 67°, humidity was high at 88%, and a gentle southerly breeze stirred the air. The deck was still soaked from overnight rain, requiring a bit of attention before settling in with the first cup of coffee.

The morning gradually came alive. At first only distant birds could be heard,

but before long the squirrels were in full sprint, racing back and forth across the roadway as though they had somewhere very important to be. Their endless energy provided the day's first entertainment while coffee and quiet reflection set the tone for what would become an enjoyable Sunday.

Brunch and Shopping with Family

The peaceful morning was interrupted by a welcome phone call from my daughter, inviting me to spend the morning with her and my son-in-law. We decided on brunch at Eat'n Park before heading to Kohl's, where she was convinced her 55% off coupon would work wonders.

Thinking I might finally replace a couple pairs of well worn gardening jeans, I tagged along with modest expectations. My daughter reminded me that today's fashion world actually sells pre-torn, worn-out jeans for hundreds of dollars, prompting me to joke that perhaps I should gather up my old work jeans and trade them in for several new pairs.

Unfortunately, the jeans I wanted weren't available in either my size or preferred style.

That pattern continued throughout the shopping trip.

A set of linen sheets caught my eye until I discovered they weren't eligible for the discount. Later, I found a compact handheld vacuum that looked perfect for cleaning the impossibly tight space behind the rear seat of my car. Once again, the small "Not Included" tag brought that idea to an end.

Meanwhile, my daughter and son-in-law seemed to have no difficulty finding bargains, filling their shopping cart to overflowing while I left empty-handed.

A Stop at the Market

Before heading home, we stopped at the grocery store so I could purchase one simple item, sugar.

Naturally, as often happens, I came home with considerably more than sugar. Still, those extra purchases should save several trips to the market later in the week.

A Beautiful Summer Afternoon

After unpacking the groceries, I settled into my familiar seat on the deck for the afternoon watch.

The weather could hardly have been more pleasant, 75 degrees, partly sunny skies, a light northwest breeze, and low enough humidity to make sitting outdoors genuinely comfortable.

A tall glass of iced tea accompanied the afternoon while dramatic summer clouds drifted overhead.

Looking back, I realized I really hadn't accomplished very much during the day, yet I also hadn't spent time worrying about anything.

That, in itself, felt like an accomplishment.

Dinner with Dear Friends

Later in the afternoon I drove to Greensburg to spend the evening with my longtime friend Bob and his wife, Barbra.

I arrived around 5 PM as planned, giving us over an hour to simply relax on their backyard patio before dinner. Their fenced garden surrounds a peaceful little fish pond and, thanks to Barbra's English family heritage, has the unmistakable charm of an English garden with flowers, comfortable seating, and quiet corners perfect for conversation.

As always, conversation came effortlessly.

Bob's engineering background and years as a facilities manager, Barbra's teaching career, and my own experiences in both construction and education always provide more than enough common ground. Before long we found ourselves discussing everything from projects and teaching to everyday observations about life.

Dinner itself was hearty, and delicious, corned beef with potatoes and carrots.

and a flavorful au jou.

I continue to feel incredibly fortunate to have friends like Bob and Barbra. Time spent with people who genuinely enjoy one another's company becomes increasingly valuable with each passing year.

Photography Among the Flowers

While Bob and Barbra finished preparing dinner, I wandered through their gardens photographing many of the flowers.

The macro capabilities of the iPhone 17 proved impressive once again. Even with only a quick glance afterward, several images appeared sharp enough to warrant making larger prints. I'm looking forward to reviewing them more carefully and sharing some of the better photographs later.

A Sunset That Escaped the Camera

Driving west on Route 30 toward home, I was treated to a beautiful sunset.

Unfortunately, there simply wasn't a safe place to pull off the road, so this particular sunset will remain only a memory rather than a photograph.

Not every beautiful moment can be captured, and perhaps that's part of what makes some of them special.

Closing the Day on the Deck

Back home once again, I returned to my favorite place on the deck, hoping to enjoy every remaining minute of daylight before night settled in.

The temperature had fallen to a comfortable 72 degrees with humidity down to 52%. A light north, northwest breeze made a lightweight jacket feel just about perfect.

As darkness slowly approached, I found myself reflecting on a day that had been wonderfully uncomplicated.

Family in the morning.

Friends in the evening.

Pleasant weather.

Good conversation.

Good food.

Beautiful gardens.

A few photographs.

A sunset remembered.

Some days don't need extraordinary events to become memorable. Sometimes they simply remind us how satisfying life can be when we allow ourselves to enjoy the ordinary moments that quietly become the ones we treasure most.

Fran would have enjoyed this day as well, I'm certain of that...

July 20, 2026

Today was one of those rare summer days that seemed to unfold exactly as I needed it to. It wasn't a day filled with major accomplishments or ambitious projects, yet by day's end I realized that perhaps what I accomplished most was simply giving myself permission to slow down and breathe.

The morning began quietly on the deck with coffee in hand. The weather couldn't have been much better, gradually warming from the mid-60s into a remarkably comfortable afternoon. By late afternoon the temperature had reached a pleasant 80°F, the humidity had fallen to 48%, and a light southwest breeze made spending time outdoors almost irresistible. It was the kind of day that reminded me why I treasure my time on the deck overlooking the backyard.

Early in the morning I received a text from my niece Lindsey letting me know that my sister-in-law, Linda, had passed away earlier this morning. Although I had known her health had been steadily declining, actually receiving that message changed the entire complexion of the day.

My thoughts immediately turned to her children and the difficult road they have now begun to travel, especially having lost their father shortly after his retirement. Having walked that road myself almost exactly one year ago with Fran's passing, I know there are no shortcuts through grief. I offered Lindsey whatever help I could provide, knowing that sometimes simply being there is the greatest gift we can offer.

Even with that heavy news, I decided it was best to continue my normal morning routine. I have learned over the past year that while grief deserves its place, routine often provides the stability needed to keep moving forward one step at a time.

One of the highlights of the day came when my son-in-law spent several hours helping me around the house.

He planted the Scarlet crêpe myrtle that Fran's cousin Cathy had sent in her memory. Seeing that tree finally take its permanent place in the yard felt especially meaningful, knowing it will hopefully bloom for many years to come as a living reminder of Fran.

He also spent time weeding and tending the garden before turning attention to helping me determine the root cause of the mystery of why electricity had stopped reaching the shed. It didn't take us very long to discover an underground splice that neither of us knew existed. Apparently that splice had failed somewhere along the way. While we still don't know exactly how or why it happened, at least we now know where the problem lies. A problem that will be addressed on another day.

After our work was finished, I returned to the deck, where I spent nearly the entire remainder of the day simply enjoying the outdoors. There wasn't any overwhelming need to accomplish more. Instead, I found myself content just listening to the breeze moving through the trees, watching the changing sky, and allowing my thoughts to wander.

Late in the afternoon one of my favorite visitors made another appearance.

The male cardinal that seems to have claimed the pine tree directly in front of the deck quietly returned to his usual perch. After noticing movement among the branches, I patiently watched until I finally spotted him. Although he stubbornly insisted on facing away from me, I still managed to capture a few photographs. Sometimes the joy isn't in getting the perfect photograph but simply sharing a quiet moment with one of mother earths beautiful creatures.

As evening settled over the yard, the peacefulness of the landscape became almost overwhelming.

Looking across the freshly mowed lawn toward the tree line, I realized I had spent nearly the entire day outdoors. It had been a remarkably therapeutic day, even though very little had been accomplished by ordinary standards.

Yet beneath that peaceful exterior, my thoughts continuously returned to Linda...and inevitably to Fran.

After coming inside around 8:30 in the evening, I settled into my recliner intending to watch the news for an hour before going downstairs to write my daily blog entries. Instead, I apparently fell asleep almost immediately. It wasn't until around one o'clock in the morning that I suddenly awakened, realizing I had slept soundly for nearly four hours without waking even once.

For a moment I considered postponing my writing until morning. I was still exhausted. But something inside me said these thoughts needed to be recorded, before I tried to sleep again.

Throughout the day, memories of Fran and Linda had occupied my mind almost continuously.

Those two sisters shared an extraordinary bond. I often joked that they were "connected at the hip" because they talked, and confided with one another, about nearly everything. They were sisters in every sense of the word, but they were also best friends and each other's closest confidants.

When Fran passed away last July, aside from me, I don't think anyone felt that loss more deeply than Linda. Although her own health was already failing, she somehow managed to carry on for another year and ten days. During that year, we spent many hours sharing memories of Fran. Linda often told stories from their childhood, stories I had heard before from Fran herself, but somehow hearing them again from Linda gave them new life.

The two of them had not enjoyed an easy childhood. Their parents' divorce was anything but amicable, leaving their mother to raise four children largely on her own. My mother-in-law was a remarkable woman whose determination and colorful personality became the source of countless family stories. Those stories were passed back and forth between Fran and Linda so often that they became part of the fabric of our family.

As I reflected tonight, one particular memory rose above all the others.

When Fran and I first met, it was during the Christmas season of 1969. From that very first meeting, I somehow knew she was the person I wanted to spend my life with. We quickly became inseparable.

That first Valentine's Day found me as a nearly penniless college student. I desperately wanted to buy roses for Fran, but I also wanted to send flowers to her mother and her sister, two individuals I had even yet to meet, because of how lovingly she spoke about both of them. Unfortunately, I couldn't afford to do both.

When I explained the situation to Fran, she didn't hesitate for even a second.

She told me to send the roses to her mother and to Linda.

She said she didn't need flowers because she already knew how much I loved her.

Looking back now, that simple request revealed everything about the woman I would eventually marry. Her first instinct wasn't to think about herself. It was to think about the two women she loved most.

That single Valentine's Day became the beginning of a tradition that continued for more than fifty years. Every year I brought roses to Fran, eventually to Linda, and later to our daughter.

Over the past few years my nieces Stacey and Lindsey also became recipients.

That first act of generosity by a young woman in 1970 became a family tradition that still lives vividly in my memory today.

As I sit here tonight, I honestly feel as though I am standing on the edge of an emotional collapse. The sorrow seems almost overwhelming. Losing Fran was devastating enough. Losing Linda somehow feels like closing another chapter of the life we all shared together.

There are moments when it seems as though everything Fran and I spent fifty-three years building is slowly coming apart at the seams.

Yet, even as I write those words, another thought quietly surfaces.

Perhaps it isn't coming apart at all.

Perhaps the memories themselves are becoming the glue that now holds everything together.

I have often said that I don't consider myself to be a particularly religious person. Yet tonight I sincerely hope that my doubts are wrong. I hope beyond hope that somewhere beyond our understanding, Fran and Linda have found one another again.

They spent a lifetime walking side by side.

It seems only fitting that, wherever eternity may lead, they are once again sharing stories, laughing together, and watching over the family they both loved so deeply.

Although Linda stood barely five feet tall, she possessed enough confidence, determination, and inner strength to fill any room she entered. She was a remarkable woman, a devoted sister, and one of the most important people in Fran's life.

Tonight, while the house sits quietly around me in the early hours of the morning, I find myself deeply grateful for every story, every tradition, every holiday, every bouquet of Valentine's Day roses, and every memory the two of them left behind.

The sorrow is still immense.

The loneliness remains.

But so does the love.

"Perhaps, in the end, love and memory really are the strongest things we leave behind."

Here's to lives well lived and the memories they leave behind...

July 21, 2026

The day greeted me under a blanket of low gray clouds and the unmistakable evidence of an overnight shower. Not enough rain to make a mess of things, but certainly enough to summon the faithful squeegee team before I could claim my usual seat on the deck.

At 67 degrees, with humidity resting at 86 percent and a gentle southerly breeze, the morning carried that familiar cool dampness that often follows a summer rain. The forecast promises a high of 82 degrees before additional showers arrive sometime this afternoon, though weather has a habit of writing its own script.

Considering I didn't make it to bed until a little after three this morning, I expected to feel much more tired than I do. Perhaps the four uninterrupted hours I spent asleep in the recliner before waking shortly after one o'clock were enough to recharge the batteries.

There are no major plans for today, and perhaps that's exactly as it should be. Some days aren't meant to be orchestrated. They simply ask us to show up, accept them for what they are, and remain open to whatever they quietly place in our path.

6:47 AM

The squeegee team made surprisingly short work of the overnight moisture this morning, leaving the table, chairs, and deck ready for another day's occupancy. Before long, I found myself settling into my usual chair with a second cup of coffee, officially beginning my morning watch.

The sky has changed noticeably in just a short period of time. The low gray blanket from earlier has begun to break apart, revealing patches of blue overhead while long ribbons of cloud race from south to north. There appears to be considerable turbulence high above, the cloud formations shifting at a pace that's impossible to ignore.

Whether those moving clouds will allow the sunrise to put on much of a performance remains to be seen. There are hints of soft gold beginning to touch their undersides, enough to suggest that the old haymaker is patiently waiting for an opening.

As with so many mornings, there's little to do but sip my coffee, keep one eye on the sky, and let nature decide how the next chapter unfolds.

6:55 AM

The morning watch continues.

What appeared to be a rather ordinary gray morning has slowly transformed into something much more interesting. The cloud cover continues racing from south to north, opening wider patches of blue with each passing minute. High overhead, the clouds have broken into countless textured layers, their edges beginning to catch the first warm light of the morning.

Although the sunrise itself remains hidden behind a bank of clouds along the eastern horizon, it is making its presence known. Soft shades of gold and cream are filtering upward, illuminating the undersides of the passing clouds while the landscape below remains wrapped in the cool, fresh greens left behind by the overnight rain.

These are the mornings that remind me why I rarely rush through my coffee. Nature seldom reveals everything at once. Instead, she unfolds her performance a scene at a time, rewarding those willing to remain seated just a little longer.

6:59 AM

The morning watch continues to reward patience.

The lingering clouds that only moments ago were racing northward have now begun to surrender to the morning sun. As they drift toward the northeast, the sunlight is catching their trailing edges, transforming ordinary gray into soft ribbons of gold and cream.

It's amazing how quickly the sky can rewrite itself. In less than half an hour, what began as a quiet, overcast morning has become a constantly changing display of light and motion. The atmosphere remains alive with movement, yet here on the deck everything feels calm and unhurried.

With a second cup of coffee nearly finished, I'm reminded once again that nature seldom rushes her performances. She reveals them gradually, one scene after another, rewarding those willing to stay in their seats until the final act has had a chance to unfold.

Perhaps that's one of life's quieter lessons. So often we judge the day by its opening moments, only to discover that its greatest beauty arrives a little later than expected.

That last thought seems especially fitting for me. After everything I've experienced over the past year, I've often written about simply showing up each morning and seeing what the day has to offer. Today's sunrise feels like a gentle reminder of that philosophy. At first glance it appeared there might not be much of a sunrise at all. Yet by staying with it, coffee in hand, watching rather than hurrying, I was able to witness its quiet transformation.

Sometimes the most memorable mornings aren't the ones that explode with color all at once. They're the ones that slowly earn your attention, minute by minute, just as this one has.

7:18 AM

The morning watch continues, and with it another reminder that patience often has its rewards.

The cloud cover that greeted me before sunrise continues to disperse, drifting steadily toward the northeast. At last, there are hints of the old haymaker himself, just visible to the right of the pine tree.

He hasn't made a grand entrance this morning, but instead has quietly announced his arrival through scattered shafts of light and soft golden reflections on the passing clouds.

It's been one of those mornings where the sky never stood still. Every few minutes brought another subtle change, another opening in the clouds, another glimpse of blue. What first appeared destined to remain gray has slowly evolved into a beautiful summer morning.

With my coffee nearly finished, I realize that this has never really been about watching the sunrise alone. It's about witnessing the transition, the gentle awakening of another day and the quiet privilege of having a front-row seat while nature writes the first chapter.

As I reflect on my entries from this morning, one thought keeps coming back to me. My"morning watch" isn't just about the weather anymore. Over the past year, it has become a kind of daily ritual of hope. Some mornings are brilliant from the first light, while others begin beneath thick clouds and only gradually reveal their beauty. Today's sunrise followed the second path.

There seems to be a quiet parallel in that. Not every beautiful day begins with brilliance. Sometimes it emerges slowly, almost unnoticed, until suddenly you realize the light has been there all along, waiting for the clouds to move aside. I think that's one of the reasons these mornings on our deck have become such a meaningful part of my life;

they remind me that patience often reveals what haste would have missed.

11:30 AM

After spending the better part of the morning mixing ingredients and kneading, I finished preparing my first batch of enriched bread dough. Unlike my usual rustic Italian bread, this dough is much softer and richer, intended more for decorative shaping than for developing a hearty crust.

It has now been tucked safely into a bowl to rise for about an hour and a half while I wait to see what adventures it might lead to this afternoon.

Since it was still technically morning, I decided to return to the deck for another cup of coffee and continue my morning watch. I carried the seat cushion from the storage box, stepped back inside to pour a fresh cup, and by the time I returned outdoors, the rain had arrived.

At first I thought it might simply be a passing shower, but it quickly became obvious that it intended to stay awhile. I briefly considered opening the umbrella, but with dishes, pots, pans, and mixing bowls still waiting to be cleaned, common sense finally won out. I carried my coffee back inside and finished cleaning the kitchen while listening to the gentle rainfall outside.

Sometimes the day quietly decides what's next for us.

8:57 PM

I pulled the Japanese milk bread dinner rolls from the oven about 45 minutes ago and as you could see in the photo where I pulled one apart, it was heavenly.

The texture was divine, and it almost melted in my mouth. I enjoyed the one that I pulled apart with some leftover corn, beef and corn beef au jus With carrots and mini potatoes on the side.

I didn’t get too carried away with the first half dozen, that were basically knots, tied and tucked, and then placed into a muffin tin. I use the remaining two pieces of dough , trying to get a little more creative by cutting a circle of dough into eight sections, then laying the triangles on top of one another and then rolling them out into a flower type configuration.

All in all, for my first attempt, I didn’t think it went badly. I was in fact, quite impressed with the taste and texture of the dough itself. It worked especially well with the au jou because the pillowy texture soaked it up like a sponge.

July 22, 2026

Waiting for the Blue

This morning began much later than usual, as I didn't get out of bed until nearly 7:30. Looking through the patio doors while preparing my first cup of coffee, I was greeted by another wet deck, meaning it was time once again to awaken the faithful "Squeegee Team." They quickly made short work of the standing water, allowing me to settle into my usual seat on the deck.

The day began beneath gray skies with temperatures around 66 degrees, humidity in the mid-80 percent range, and a cool north westerly breeze. As the morning unfolded, darker clouds drifted in from the northwest, briefly blocking the sun and cooling the air enough that I considered giving up on my morning watch and heading indoors. The sounds of dump trucks and construction equipment at the new high school stadium echoed through the neighborhood, while the usual aircraft flying overhead remained hidden behind the cloud cover.

Just as I was preparing to call it a morning, something changed.

The northern sky slowly began to brighten. Although the sun itself remained hidden,

enough light filtered through the clouds to cast the shadow of my coffee cup across the tabletop—a small but unmistakable sign that the sun was still there. Within minutes the temperature climbed, the sky continued to open, and optimism quietly returned.

By late morning, the transformation was complete.

The steady northwest wind had swept away nearly all of the cloud cover, revealing brilliant blue skies filled with bright white summer clouds.

I removed the lightweight fleece jacket I'd needed earlier, raised the umbrella over the deck table, and once again enjoyed the warmth of the sunshine on my skin while wearing nothing more than a short-sleeved T-shirt. It was remarkable how dramatically the weather had changed in such a short period of time and a wonderful reminder that patience is often rewarded.

The afternoon proved just as enjoyable.

Around two o'clock I headed down to the garden to tie up several tomato and pepper plants that had grown so well they were beginning to bend toward the ground under their own weight.

A perfect day for catching up with garden chores...

With temperatures in the low seventies, humidity in the mid-fifties, and a refreshing northwest breeze, working in the garden couldn't have been more pleasant.

After returning to the deck with a glass of iced tea, the peaceful afternoon was suddenly interrupted by the sound of a car slamming on its brakes. Looking up, I initially thought a dog had darted into the roadway, but instead it was a beautiful doe crossing safely into my neighbor's yard. I managed to capture several photographs as she calmly grazed beneath the trees before quietly continuing across the hillside.

Encounters like that serve as another reminder of how fortunate I am to share this neighborhood with so much wildlife.

Later in the afternoon my daughter called to let me know that she and my son-in-law would be stopping by so he could finally finish repairing the electrical problem that had left the shed without power.

They arrived around 5:30, and he immediately went to work. By about eight o'clock the repairs were complete, restoring electricity to the shed and finally bringing that lingering project to a successful conclusion.

While he worked, I fired up the grill and prepared a simple summer meal of hot dogs, French fries, baked beans, and the last of the homemade corn salsa. We enjoyed dinner together on the deck as the sun slowly disappeared beyond the horizon, ending what had become one of the nicest weather days we've experienced in quite some time.

After Kim and her husband headed home, around nine o'clock, I cleaned the kitchen, gathered my thoughts, and finally made my way downstairs to the family room office to organize the notes I'd accumulated throughout the day.

Looking back over everything that transpired, it's difficult to imagine a more enjoyable midsummer day. What began beneath gray skies filled with uncertainty slowly unfolded into sunshine, comfortable temperatures, productive hours in the garden, an unexpected visit from a graceful doe, the satisfaction of finally restoring power to the shed, and an evening spent sharing a simple meal with family as the sun slipped below the horizon.

The day never demanded attention with dramatic events. Instead, it offered something far more meaningful, the quiet reminder that:

some of life's best days are simply those in which everything gradually falls into place.

July 23, 2026

6:42 AM

At 6:42 this morning, it certainly appears that we're in store for another beautiful day, at least as far as the weather is concerned.

The outdoor temperature is a rather cool 51°, accompanied by a relative humidity of 95%. Oddly enough, there's already a very gentle breeze moving from east to west at about 2 mph. The forecast is calling for sunshine throughout the entire day, something that certainly appeals to me after some of the unsettled weather we've experienced recently.

Standing at the patio door with my first cup of coffee in hand, I can already tell that the overnight humidity has left its mark. The tabletop on the deck is coated with a layer of dew, so before I settle into my usual chair to begin my morning watch, I'll need to grab a few paper towels and wipe everything dry.

It's a small ritual that has become part of nearly every summer morning, and one I've come to appreciate. There's something comforting about preparing my little outdoor sanctuary before sitting quietly with a cup of coffee, watching the sun make its appearance, and wondering what surprises nature might have in store today.

For now, everything is peaceful. The day is just beginning, and it feels full of promise.

7:24 AM

At 7:24 this morning, my morning watch officially got underway, although I'm still observing it from the warmth of the kitchen rather than from my usual seat out on the deck.

As I stood at the kitchen counter looking through the patio doors, I couldn't help but notice one of my furry little friends already hard at work.

A squirrel was busily gathering whatever breakfast treasures he could find before making another hurried trip across the roadway to wherever he calls home.

He never seemed to remain still for more than a few seconds, reminding me that the day had already begun long before I poured my first cup of coffee.

Meanwhile, the Old Haymaker continues his slow climb above the eastern horizon.

His golden light is now reaching across the field and illuminating the dew-covered hillside, transforming the landscape into a patchwork of brilliant greens and soft golds. Although the sun is fully visible, it hasn't yet generated enough warmth to make sitting outdoors entirely comfortable.

For the moment, I'm content to admire the morning through the patio doors. The cool air still lingers, making the kitchen feel like the more inviting place to be. If the sunshine continues to do its work, however, I suspect it won't be long before I'll gather my coffee, dry the last remaining dew from the tabletop, and make my way out to my familiar chair on the deck to continue this morning's watch from my favorite vantage point.

Every sunrise seems to tell its own story. Today's begins not with dramatic colors or spectacular clouds, but with quiet simplicity. a busy squirrel, a dew-covered hillside, and the gentle promise of another beautiful summer day.

8:30 AM

While waiting for the morning to warm up a bit and for some of the seemingly endless dew to finally disappear, I decided to make good use of the time indoors.

What began as a quick cleanup turned into a much more ambitious project. I vacuumed nearly all of the carpeting throughout the house, leaving only the bedrooms, for another time.

Once that was finished, I brought out the steam mop and thoroughly cleaned the ceramic tile in the kitchen, dining room, bathroom, main entryway and the garage entry.

By the time everything was finished, it was just after 8:30 before I finally made my way outdoors to resume my morning watch, this time from my usual seat on the deck rather than from behind the patio doors.

Even after drying the tabletop twice, the persistent morning dew continues to return, no doubt encouraged by the combination of high humidity and the cool overnight temperatures. It's a reminder that nature tends to operate on her own timetable rather than mine.

Still, the changes are becoming noticeable with every passing minute. The Old Haymaker has climbed higher into an absolutely cloudless sky, the warmth is gradually beginning to overcome the coolness of the morning, and the long shadows are slowly retreating across the lawn.

If things continue at their present pace, I suspect that by around 10 o'clock the fleece jacket will no longer be necessary. More than likely, I'll be putting up the umbrella over the deck table, not for shelter from the weather, but to provide just enough shade to enjoy what promises to become another beautiful summer day.

8:37 AM

At 8:37 this morning, as I sat at the deck table scanning the horizon and taking in the landscape that surrounds me, my thoughts began wandering in directions I hadn't intended.

For reasons I can't entirely explain, I've been thinking a great deal about spending the rest of my life alone.

I can't help but remember the conversations Fran and I had during the year or so before she passed away. Every now and then she would look at me and quietly say,

"You're going to miss me when I'm gone."

Every time she brought it up, my response was always the same.

"Let's not talk about that. Let's just make the best of the time we have."

Now I find myself wondering whether I truly did make the best of that time. I certainly hope I did, but that's one of those questions that has no answer once the opportunity has passed.

Over this past year, I've learned firsthand that grief is a terrible experience. What I'm beginning to realize, however, is that loneliness is every bit as formidable. The two often travel together, and during the quiet moments they seem almost impossible to separate.

I do my best to keep myself busy. I work in the garden, cook, clean the house, write my blog, photograph the wildlife, or find another project that gives me a sense of purpose.

Staying occupied keeps my mind moving forward.

But when everything becomes still, when the chores are finished, the birds quiet down, and all I have is a cup of coffee and my own thoughts, that's when the contemplation begins.

Perhaps that's why I push myself as hard as I do. Maybe, without even realizing it, I keep myself occupied so I won't have to spend quite so much time confronting the silence. More often than not, by the end of the day I've worked myself to the point that I simply fall asleep from exhaustion.

Growing older has also brought with it an increasing awareness of my own limitations.

Things that once required little effort now ask much more of me. Simply climbing the stairs isn't quite as effortless as it used to be. Tasks I once completed without a second thought now require noticeably more strength, more patience, and, at times, more determination than I ever imagined.

Looking back, I realize how much I took for granted.

And that inevitably brings my thoughts back to the future.

Life isn't likely to become easier from this point forward. The years ahead will almost certainly present new challenges, both physically and emotionally.

The question that quietly lingers in the back of my mind is one I suspect many people my age eventually ask themselves:

How long will I be able to continue doing this on my own?

I don't have an answer to that question today.

What I do know is that this morning, as the Old Haymaker slowly climbs higher into a clear blue sky and another beautiful day unfolds before me, I'm reminded that the only day I can truly live is the one I've been given.

So for now, I'll finish my coffee, enjoy the warmth that is gradually replacing the morning chill, and be thankful that I can still greet another sunrise from this little corner of the world that has become my sanctuary.

9:02 AM

At 9:02 this morning, the Old Haymaker has finally climbed high enough to clear the nearby treetops, and I can now feel the warmth of his rays on my skin.

The difference over the past half hour has been remarkable. The sunshine is making short work of drying the tabletop, the deck boards, and everything else that had been soaked with the heavy morning dew. At long last, the fleece jacket has become unnecessary, and the umbrella over the table has been opened, not to keep the rain away, but to provide a welcome bit of shade from what is shaping up to be another beautiful summer day.

As I sat here enjoying my coffee, I couldn't help but notice how well the large planter beside the deck is doing.

Only a few short weeks ago, I was fairly certain that some of the smaller flowering plants,particularly the yellow and purple calibrachoas, were nearing the end of their season. They had become sparse, the blossoms were few and far between, and several stems had begun drying out.

Today, however, they tell an entirely different story.

The planter is once again overflowing with color. The yellow and purple flowers are blooming in abundance, the begonias look healthy and vibrant, the ornamental spike stands proudly above everything else, and the entire arrangement appears full of life.

I suppose it's another reminder that many things simply require time, patience, a little attention, and, every now and then, an occasional manicure to remove what no longer belongs.

Perhaps there's a lesson in that.

Whether it's a flower planter, a garden, or even our own lives, we sometimes become discouraged when growth seems to stall or beauty appears to fade. Yet with a bit of care and patience, life often has a way of surprising us.

This morning, my little planter seems determined to prove exactly that.

9:15 AM

The morning has finally settled into its comfortable rhythm.

The Old Haymaker has climbed high enough that the umbrella is now doing exactly what it was intended to do, providing a bit of welcome shade while still allowing me to enjoy the warmth that only a summer morning can offer.

My coffee cup now sits alone on the table,

a silent companion that has accompanied me through countless morning watches over this past year. It has witnessed cloudy mornings and brilliant sunrises, thunderstorms and rainbows, wildlife wandering through the yard, and more conversations with myself than I could ever count.

This little corner of the deck has become much more than simply a place to drink coffee.

It has become my sanctuary.

It is here that I greet each new day, watch the seasons slowly change, reflect on the life Fran and I shared together, and search for the strength to embrace whatever lies ahead.

This morning, with the sunshine filtering beneath the edge of the umbrella and the warmth finally replacing the coolness of dawn, I find myself reminded that life has a remarkable way of moving forward.

The dew disappears. The flowers bloom again. The sun climbs higher.

Somehow, despite carrying yesterday's memories, another new day quietly unfolds before me.

Perhaps that's one of nature's greatest lessons:

It never asks us to forget what came before. It simply invites us to welcome what comes next.

9:19 AM

At 9:19 this morning, the time I've spent seated at the deck table has been remarkably peaceful.

Considering it's the middle of the workweek, there's been surprisingly little traffic on the roadway above me. An occasional car passes by, interrupted now and then by a commercial vehicle, but thankfully none of the large construction trucks or heavy equipment that normally bring with them the rumbling, grumbling, and distracting noise that seems to echo throughout the neighborhood.

Instead, the sounds surrounding me are the ones I much prefer.

The birds continue their conversations from the trees, a gentle breeze occasionally stirs the leaves overhead, and the soft melodies of smooth jazz drift from the kitchen through the screen door and out onto the deck, providing a quiet soundtrack to the morning.

It is peacefulness personified.

Even the weather seems to be cooperating. The coolness of dawn has gradually surrendered to the warmth of the morning sun, the heavy dew has all but disappeared, and the brilliant blue sky remains without a cloud in sight.

It's mornings like this that remind me why I cherish my time on the deck so much.

There are no deadlines demanding my attention, no appointments waiting to be kept, and no urgency to be anywhere else. There is only this moment, a cup of coffee, a comfortable chair, the music I enjoy, and the beauty of another summer morning unfolding before my eyes.

After all the thoughts that occupied my mind earlier today, perhaps this is exactly what I needed.

Sometimes peace doesn't arrive with fanfare. Sometimes it simply settles quietly around us, one gentle breeze, one birdsong, and one ray of sunshine at a time.

11:25 AM

At 11:25 this morning, I've just returned to the deck with the umbrella overhead, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and, of course, smooth jazz drifting softly through the screen door from the kitchen.

I began my watering rounds at about 10 o'clock, giving the entire garden a thorough soaking. The recently planted crape myrtle received a little extra attention, as did the flowers along the front and sides of the house. With the sunshine we've been enjoying, I'd much rather give everything a deep drink now than have the plants struggling later in the day.

Once the watering was finished, I spent another half hour pulling weeds in the front flower beds. It was time well spent, although I could easily have devoted another hour and still not been completely finished. Gardening has a way of reminding us that there's always something waiting to be done, but that's part of its charm. The work is never really finished, it simply changes with the seasons.

After making my way through the garden, I couldn't help but notice how well everything seems to be doing.

The tomato plants are carrying an abundance of fruit, and a few tomatoes have finally begun turning red.

Each day I find myself checking on them with growing anticipation, knowing it won't be long before the first truly vine-ripened tomato of the season finds its way onto my plate.

The pepper plants are equally impressive, hanging heavy with sweet peppers that seem to grow larger every time I walk by.

The zucchini continue to spread enthusiastically across their bed,

and even the lettuce, though beginning to show the effects of midsummer, has provided a wonderful harvest over the past several weeks.

As I settle back into my chair on the deck, the weather couldn't be much more pleasant.

The temperature has climbed to a comfortable 68°, the humidity has dropped to 55%, and a light northwesterly breeze of about 2 to 3 miles per hour,  makes the air feel even more refreshing.

It's one of those late mornings where everything seems to be in harmony.

The chores are finished, the garden has been cared for, the flowers have had their drink, and the coffee somehow tastes even better knowing that the work has been done.

Now it's time to simply sit back, listen to the music, and enjoy another beautiful day that the Old Haymaker has so generously provided.

5:37 PM

At 5:37 this evening, I've just finished dinner out on the deck, surrounded by what has to be one of the most beautiful blue skies I've seen in quite some time.

The panoramic view stretching from due north all the way to due south is completely devoid of clouds. Not one. Just an endless canopy of brilliant blue overhead.

What an amazing evening.

Earlier this afternoon, my neighbor Bob, who so graciously helps by cutting my grass, stopped over and gave the lawn a thorough clipping. As if on cue, the maintenance crew from the school behind my house also finally mowed the hillside that stretches between our yard and the distant tree line.

That grass had grown surprisingly tall, probably ten to twelve inches in some places, and I had begun wondering how much longer it would be before they finally got around to it.

Now that everything has been cut, the entire landscape looks refreshed. Looking out from the deck this evening, everything appears neat, well cared for, and beautifully framed beneath an endless summer sky.

This afternoon turned out to be a productive one indoors as well.

Although the house really wasn't all that messy, I found myself doing a considerable amount of cleaning anyway. After vacuuming the upstairs hallway, living room, and staircase, I once again brought out the steam mop and cleaned all of the ceramic tile floors. From there, I made my way downstairs to the family room and continued the same routine.

With the outdoor temperature being so comfortable, I opened several windows and doors, allowing the fresh air to circulate throughout the house.

Now, not only does everything look refreshed, but the house itself feels refreshed as well.

As I sit here this evening, another thought has crossed my mind.

I'm thinking about giving Kimberly a call to see whether she and my son-in-law might be interested in going out for a bit of ice cream later this evening. Nothing elaborate, just a simple outing to enjoy a beautiful summer evening together if their schedules allow.

Sometimes it's the little things that make a day memorable.

A freshly mowed lawn.

A clean house.

A thriving garden.

An endless blue sky.

And perhaps, if everything works out, sharing an ice cream cone with family before another beautiful day quietly comes to an end.

8:10 PM

At 8:10 this evening, I finally made my way back into the house after another wonderful day spent outdoors.

As has become my nightly routine, I put away the seat cushions, lowered the umbrella over the deck table, and took one last look around before calling it a day.

On my way inside, I noticed a couple of groundhogs and a rabbit grazing just to the right of the garden.

Naturally, I had to wander over for a closer look to make certain they weren't developing an interest in sampling my vegetables.

Thankfully, the garden has remained free of unwanted visitors this year, and I certainly hope that trend continues. After all the work that's gone into tending it, I'd much rather be the one harvesting the vegetables than sharing them with the local wildlife.

Earlier today I mentioned that I was thinking about calling Kimberly and my son-in-law to see if they'd like to go out for ice cream this evening. Before doing that, however, I thought perhaps I'd call my nieces and nephew to see if they might enjoy getting out for a little while.

As expected, they're still very much feeling the weight of their mother's passing, and understandably so.

When I asked if they'd like to go this evening, they suggested perhaps tomorrow instead.

While talking with my niece Stacey, I mentioned that it might actually be nicer to go sometime after lunch rather than in the evening. The ice cream shops are usually much less crowded during the afternoon, which means shorter lines and a more relaxed visit.

Hopefully, tomorrow will work out for all of us.[

My son, who lives in North Carolina, also checked in on me at around 8 PM, on his way home from work. We talked for about fifteen minutes and then said our goodbyes. Eventhough he lives so far away it's good to hear from him, and to know that he and his family are doing well.

Before heading downstairs to the family room to make a few additions to today's blog and begin winding down for the night, I stumbled upon another pleasant surprise.

I took one of the Japanese milk bread rolls I had baked yesterday, in the muffin tins, sliced it in half, spread on a little butter, sprinkled it generously with cinnamon and sugar, and placed it in the microwave for about twenty seconds, on the defrost cycle.

The result was absolutely delicious.

The butter melted into the soft bread while the cinnamon and sugar created something remarkably similar to a warm cinnamon roll, lighter, less sweet, and ready in less than a minute.

I have a feeling that little discovery won't be the last time it appears on my breakfast table.

As I reflect on today, I'm reminded that it wasn't marked by any extraordinary events.

There were no dramatic moments or grand adventures.

Instead, it was a day filled with the simple pleasures that so often become the most meaningful: a beautiful sunrise, a productive morning, a flourishing garden, a flawlessly blue sky, a quiet evening on the deck, thoughtful conversations with family, and the unexpected joy of discovering a new way to enjoy a loaf of homemade bread.

Those may seem like ordinary things.

But more and more; I'm finding that it's the ordinary moments that make life feel extraordinarily rich.

July 24, 2026

A Beautiful Beginning

At 6:14 this morning, I was greeted by a sunrise that far exceeded my expectations. The eastern sky was painted with delicate streaks of gold and soft white against an increasingly blue backdrop, making for a peaceful start to the day. Although the outdoor temperature was a rather brisk 55 degrees with humidity at 84 percent and a light northeast breeze around 4 to 5 miles per hour, it was simply too chilly to enjoy my coffee out on the deck. Instead, I admired the morning from the warmth of the patio door, grateful for the view even if I couldn't yet experience it firsthand. Today's forecast calls for sunshine to give way to clouds by mid-morning, followed by mostly cloudy skies for the remainder of the day. More concerning is the prediction of four or five consecutive days of rain ahead. After enjoying such pleasant weather lately, that certainly isn't welcome news. Still, this beautiful sunrise served as a gentle reminder that even when gray skies are expected, each day has the potential to begin with a little unexpected beauty.

I hope the forecast proves a bit too pessimistic. Sometimes those predicted stretches of rain end up offering enough breaks that you can still make your way out to the deck for your morning coffee and keep an eye on the squirrels, turkeys, rabbits, and groundhogs that have become such faithful companions during your sunrise watches.

At around 7:20 this morning, I remembered there were still a couple portions of Japanese milk bread dough resting patiently in the refrigerator, waiting for their turn. After stepping outside long enough to capture the first colors of the sunrise, I headed back into the kitchen to see what inspiration might bring.

I rolled one portion into a thin rectangle, brushed it lightly with butter, olive oil, and a sprinkle of sea salt, then layered it with slices of ham, shredded mozzarella, and fresh basil picked from the garden. Rather than simply rolling it up, I experimented a bit, cutting and folding the dough into two miniature loaves and wrapping the remaining strips around each one to hold everything together.

As the little loaves rested beneath a kitchen towel to proof on the stovetop, I wandered back out to the deck where the morning sky had become even more spectacular. Delicate wisps of cloud stretched across a brilliant blue canvas while the first golden rays of sunlight began spilling over the trees and across the garden. It was one of those mornings that reminded me how often life's simplest pleasures, a quiet sunrise, a little fresh basil, and a bit of homemade bread, are more than enough to make a day feel special.

By 8:21 this morning, I found myself back on the deck after checking on the two little loaves proofing in the kitchen. The sun had climbed just high enough to send brilliant rays through the trees, illuminating the hillside and garden below. High overhead, delicate cirrus clouds drifted across an otherwise brilliant blue sky, their feathery patterns reminding me of brushstrokes spread across a giant canvas.

The morning had already been surprisingly productive. What began with photographing the sunrise soon became an experiment in the kitchen as I transformed the last of the Japanese milk bread dough into two miniature loaves filled with butter, olive oil, sea salt, ham, mozzarella, and fresh basil from the garden. While they rested beneath a towel, slowly proofing before their trip into the oven, I stepped back outside to enjoy the beauty of another summer morning.

It's becoming one of my favorite rhythms, moving effortlessly between the quiet of the deck, the creativity of the kitchen, and the peacefulness of the garden. Each seems to complement the other, making even an ordinary Friday morning feel rich with simple pleasures.

Yesterday morning, while keeping my customary watch from the deck, I found myself thinking about the future and wondering how the years ahead might gradually change the things I'm able to do. It wasn't a particularly cheerful train of thought, but it was an honest one.

This morning, barely twenty-four hours later, those thoughts seemed to take on a little more meaning. The arthritis in my left thumb made its presence known in no uncertain terms. Over the past couple of years, it has become an unwelcome companion, no doubt the result of a lifetime spent working with my hands. Decades of carpentry, cabinetmaking, teaching construction trades, gardening, and countless projects around the house have all left their mark. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that they're beginning to ask for a little mercy in return.

I'm not entirely sure what triggered today's discomfort. Perhaps it was the cool morning air, or perhaps arthritis simply chooses its own schedule. What struck me as odd was that it was confined almost entirely to my left thumb. It serves as another reminder that aging rarely announces itself all at once. Instead, it arrives quietly, one small inconvenience at a time.

I had hoped to spend a little time practicing my guitar today, but that will probably have to wait. Some days it's wiser to listen to what your body is telling you rather than insist on having your own way. The guitar will still be there tomorrow, and with a little luck, perhaps my thumb will be feeling a bit more cooperative as well.