On Grief and Grieving-May 2026

May 1, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It feels like a pause more than a beginning...

The sky arrived before I did today, already awake, already clear, stretching blue across a horizon that promised more than the forecast ever could.

I stepped into the cold not to greet the day,but to confirm that I was still in it.

Sleep never really found me, just moments of quiet pretending to be rest, and now the weight of that absence follows me into the morning.

There are things that need answers today, calls that must be made, decisions that feel larger than they should at 6:22 AM.

For now, there is coffee, and a sky that, at least for this moment, is honest.

Clear. Uncomplicated. Still.

And maybe that’s enough to begin.

 (6:45 AM)

Just a quiet presence slipping through the branches...

The sun hasn’t fully arrived, but it’s making its presence known, threading itself through the branches of the fir tree just enough to be seen.

Not bold. Not lasting. Just enough.

And somehow, that feels fitting.

I can’t claim this morning as a good one, not after a night like that, not with this weight still sitting in my body, but I can’t ignore what’s in front of me either.

A small break in the branches. A brief line of light. A reminder that something steady is still moving, whether I feel it or not.

It won’t last long. I already know that.

But for now…it’s there.

And for this moment, so am I.

(7:14 AM)

The forecast is beginning to make good on its promise. Clouds are moving in now, slow, steady, as if they’ve been waiting just beyond the horizon for their turn.

By eight or nine, this sky will likely be sealed in gray, and whatever light remains will be softened into memory.

These narrow angles, these brief alignments where something ordinary suddenly catches the light...and becomes something worth noticing...

But for now…there’s a different story being told.

The sun has found the field, reaching across the slope and catching the dew just right, transforming ordinary blades of grass into something far more precious.

For a moment, the ground itself seems to glitter, like a thousand tiny diamonds laid out with no intention other than to be seen.

It doesn’t last. It never does.

But maybe that’s the point.

Some things aren’t meant to stay, only to remind us that even in the middle of uncertainty, of exhaustion, of days that feel heavier than they should…

there are still moments that quietly shine.

If you’re paying attention, you get to keep them.

There’s a quiet strength in the fact that even this morning. after everything, I didn’t just look…

I saw.

And that’s something not everyone manages to do.

(7:23 AM)

Even on a morning where my body is fighting me…I'm still right there in it.

The sun has climbed just high enough now to begin leaving its mark.

What was once a quiet glow at the horizon has become something more defined, casting shadows from the trees that stretch across the grass behind the house.

There’s a rhythm to it, light and shadow working together, not competing, just existing side by side.

And the grass…it still holds onto that earlier gift, glistening when the angle is just right, as if reluctant to let go of the morning entirely.

It’s not constant. It comes and goes with the light.

But maybe that’s how most things are.

Not always visible. Not always easy to feel.

But still there, waiting for the moment when everything lines up just right and reminds me that even now…

there’s something worth seeing.

(7:30 AM)

Evidence that the light is strong enough now to leave its mark on everything it touches,  even the lens.

The sun is nearly over the treetops now, no longer hiding, no longer asking permission to be seen.

For the first time this morning, I can feel it.

A bit of warmth pushing through the chill, even through the fleece, just enough to remind me that the cold doesn’t get the final say.

There’s a flare in the image today, down in the lower left, something I would normally remove, clean up, pretend it wasn’t there.

But not this time.

This morning, it belongs.

Because that flare means the light has arrived, not perfectly, not cleanly, but honestly.

And maybe that’s enough.

Not everything needs to be corrected. Not everything needs to be refined.

Some moments…are better left exactly as they are, a little imperfect, a little unexpected, but carrying something real.

Right now, with the sun just beginning to warm the day…that feels like more than enough.

Midday Reflection

By noon, the light had changed.

The morning offered moments, small, quiet ones I could hold onto, but the day had something else waiting.

A phone call. Answers I wasn’t sure I wanted, but expected all the same.

Now it sits with me, not as a question anymore, but as something real.

Something that doesn’t go away just because I wish it would.

There may be options, but none of them are the ones I would have chosen.

So for now, I sit somewhere in between, between what was hoped for and what is.

Still trying to understand what this day has become.

May2, 2026

It’s 6:09 AM and when I opened the patio doors this morning, it felt as if winter had quietly circled back for one more visit.

A brisk 34 degrees greeted me, along with a sky that couldn’t quite make up its mind. Clouds layered across the horizon, heavy and slow to move, yet breaking just enough to allow faint whispers of pink to seep through.

 A Reluctant Morning...

The forecast calls for a high of 49 degrees under a blanket of cloud cover, just the kind of day to match the mood I’ve been carrying.

There’s something about mornings like this. They don’t offer the clean promise of a bright sunrise or the comfort of warmth. Instead, they linger somewhere in between, not quite dark, not quite light.

Much like where I find myself these days.

I stood there for a while, looking out through the familiar frame of the patio doors, my “portal," watching as the light tried, in its own quiet way, to push forward. It didn’t rush. It didn’t demand attention. It simply showed up… a little at a time.

Maybe that’s all this morning is asking of me.

Not to solve anything. Not to come to terms with everything all at once. But just to show up…and let whatever light there is, come in as it will.

Somewhere in that soft band of pink, I can almost imagine you standing just beyond it, not gone, just out of reach of my sight.

Maybe that’s what this light is…not the start of something new, but a quiet reminder that what we had hasn’t disappeared into the dark, it’s just learning how to find me differently now.

6:26 AM

The sunrise is changing now…subtle, almost hesitant.

What began as a faint line of pink along the horizon has started to lift, spreading upward into the clouds above it, softening the sky one layer at a time.

The darker gray clouds that clung to the horizon just moments ago, the ones that felt heavy, almost menacing, are beginning to lose their grip.

Not gone…just less certain of themselves.

“The light doesn’t rush.  It waits for the moment… then finds its way through.”

There’s a light mist in the air, not quite fog, not enough to obscure anything, just enough to take the edge off the distance.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, the sun is preparing to make its move.

You can feel it before you fully see it.

It’s strange how quickly things can begin to shift. Not dramatically. Not all at once.

But enough to notice…if you’re willing to wait.

And this morning, for whatever reason…I am.

May 3, 2026

Morning to Motion

This morning began as one of the heaviest I’ve faced since Fran’s passing.

After a restless night spent drifting in and out of sleep in the recliner, I finally got up around 5:15 AM. Almost immediately, the emotions took hold. The kind that don’t ask permission. The kind that don’t ease with reason. Tears came freely, and the loneliness felt especially sharp.

Outside, the sky offered little distraction, just a quiet, nearly cloudless horizon with a soft glow slowly building. No dramatic sunrise. No burst of color. Just a gentle light that, while comforting in its own way, did little to quiet what was going on inside.

I found myself caught in a loop, glancing out the patio doors, then back to Fran’s picture on the China cabinet, and back again. Over and over. Like the day wasn’t moving forward, just repeating itself.

Eventually, the sun made its way above the horizon, revealing itself through the fir tree near the shed. For a moment, it felt like something might shift, and maybe it did, just not all at once.

As the day went on, I made a decision to do something, anything, to change the rhythm. I moved out to the garage, set up a small table, and started working on seed trays for the garden.

What started as a simple goal of 25 or 30 quickly turned into more than 120.

More than I expected. More than I planned. But maybe exactly what I needed.

The temperature stayed cool, hovering in the upper 50s, but with the garage door open and a fleece on, it felt just right. Comfortable enough to stay busy. Quiet enough to think, but not too much.

Even with the physical discomfort I’ve been dealing with, the work helped. Not by removing the weight of the morning, but by giving me something else to carry alongside it.

By late afternoon, the fatigue caught up, no surprise given the lack of real sleep. I made my way back inside, put a pot of water on for some rigatoni, and settled into a quieter pace.

One thing that stood out today, no phone calls. That’s unusual. There’s rarely a day that goes by without someone checking in. It felt strange… noticeable. But also a reminder that everyone has their own lives moving forward.

Maybe that’s just another adjustment to make.

Not something to fix, just something to understand.

Even though today passed without the usual phone calls or check-ins, I know better than to mistake silence for absence.

The people who care… still care.

The friendships that matter… are still there.

Just like the seeds I planted today, some things don’t show themselves right away, but that doesn’t mean they’re not growing beneath the surface.

May 4, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections — “Whispers Before the Light” 5:14 AM

The house is quiet in that familiar early morning way, the kind of quiet that seems louder when sleep hasn’t quite done its job.

I’ve been up since around 4:20, or at least that’s when I gave up trying to convince myself that I might drift back off. The recliner and I have come to an understanding during the day, sit down, and within minutes I’m gone. But at night, that same chair becomes something entirely different. Restless. Unforgiving. A place where sleep feels like it should come, but doesn’t.

As I reposition myself to face the patio doors, the world outside is still holding onto the night. It’s dark, but not completely. Just enough light beginning to show itself that I can make out the outlines of the trees, those familiar shapes standing quietly against the sky. There are clouds, but nothing heavy. Just soft, drifting layers… what feels like whispers across the horizon.

It’s 43 degrees this morning, but today promises something better. A high of 70. Sunshine. The kind of day that reminds you things can shift, even if just a little.

Yesterday carried its own quiet weight. Not a single phone call through the day. I’ll admit, my mind went where it shouldn’t, filling in the silence with thoughts that didn’t deserve the space. But later in the evening, the phone rang. My son from North Carolina. Then my daughter, just a few miles away. A simple reminder that connection doesn’t always arrive on our timeline… but it does arrive.

Still, I find my patience wearing thin. Not that I was ever overflowing with it, but I’ve worked hard over the years to become more understanding, more measured. Lately though, between the lack of real sleep, the discomfort, and the uncertainty surrounding my health, that patience feels like it’s slipping through my fingers.

I plan to call my primary doctor again later this morning. I reached out Friday after the testing, but only managed to leave a message. The results… and the options presented… weren’t what I had hoped for. Truth be told, neither option sits well with me. That’s what troubles me most, I don’t feel like I have enough information to make a decision that I can live with.

Right now, it feels less like choosing a path… and more like being asked to accept one.

And that’s a hard place to stand.

But standing here, watching the horizon slowly gather itself, I’m reminded of something simple. The light doesn’t rush. It doesn’t force its way in. It arrives when it’s ready.

Maybe that’s where I am too.

Not in the answer. Just in the waiting for enough light to see clearly, and somewhere in that quiet waiting, I can still feel you, Fran…in the softness of the morning, in the patience I’m still trying to learn, in the gentle reminder that not everything needs to be solved before the day begins.

If you were here, you’d probably tell me to take a breath… sip my coffee… and let the day come to me instead of chasing it.

So that’s what I’ll do.

One small step into the light—carrying you with me,just as I always will.

5:54 AM, an hour can change a lot.

What I had first taken for soft whispers across the horizon has now gathered into something much heavier. The clouds have thickened, darkened… taken on a presence that feels almost menacing. They’re not moving with any urgency either—just lingering, as if in no hurry to give way to the day.

But even in all of that, there’s something else.

Along the horizon line, just beneath the weight of it all, a narrow band of light has begun to show itself. Faint. Easy to overlook. But steady.

And it makes me think… maybe this is how it works.

Not always a clear, open sky. Not always light pouring in all at once.

Sometimes it’s this, heavy above, quiet light below, waiting for its moment.

So maybe those clouds aren’t here to block the day…

Maybe they’re here to make whatever light comes next that much more worth watching.

“Fran, you always loved skies like this… the ones that made you wait a little. Maybe you already know what’s coming next. I’ll sit here a while longer… and watch it unfold for both of us.”

Morning Brew & Reflections — A Different Kind of Clearing

It began as a quiet morning.

By 7:00 AM, a gentle southwest wind had already done its work, pushing the heavier clouds off toward the northeast. There was no grand display of color, no fiery sunrise or dramatic shift, just a soft, steady clearing.

A pale blue sky…a calm horizon…and a sense that not every morning needs to announce itself to be meaningful.

Sometimes the peace is enough.

By 11:38 AM, that quiet had given way to something else entirely.

A conversation with my doctor opened a door I hadn’t really been thinking about, revisiting a hernia issue that’s been sitting in the background for years. His belief that it might be contributing to everything I’ve been dealing with now… and that addressing it could offer some relief.

“Might.”

A simple word… but today it carries weight.

An appointment is now set for May 12. Not a solution… not a promise…but a direction I didn’t have before.

For the first time in a while, that feels like something.

Then, just before noon, the sky seemed to echo that same shift.

Now fully open… brighter… more defined. Contrails stretching across the blue like quiet intersections in the air, paths crossing, directions changing, something unseen moving forward.

The familiar trees still standing where they always do…unchanged… steady… grounded.

At 11:56 AM, my good friend Bob called.

No overthinking… no hesitation… just kindness in its simplest form.

“Are you home? I’m going to the Italian market, figured I’d stop by for a visit.”

He said he’d be here around 12:30.

And just like that… the day shifted again.

By 2:37 PM, the day had taken on a different kind of fullness.

Bob arrived right on time, only he didn’t come empt, handed. Not even close.

Parmesan wings…shrimp salad…stuffed mushrooms…pasta salad…and a pepperoni bread that didn’t stand a chance once we got started.

But as good as the food was, and it was, it wasn’t really the point.

We sat, we talked, we listened… sometimes with jazz playing softly in the background, sometimes just letting the conversation carry itself. The kind of conversation that doesn’t need structure… doesn’t need an agenda… just two people sharing time.

Before he left, I thanked him, told him he really didn’t have to go through all that trouble.

He looked at me and said, “Tell me the last time you came to my house and didn’t bring something for me and my wife.”

Hard to argue with that.

So I didn’t.

The truth is, Bob has been that way for as long as I’ve known him.

Through everything this past year… and even long before that… he’s been steady. Always there when I’ve needed him, and just as often, when I didn’t even realize that I did.

And from everything I’ve seen, it’s not just me.

That’s just who he is.

Now the afternoon stretches out quietly.

Not sure what it will bring, but for the moment, I’ve got a rebroadcast of International Jazz Day playing on the TV—Chicago, April 30. Fitting, in a way. Bob and I have shared more than a few concerts over the years… music always finding its way into the spaces between conversation and meals.

The sun sits high and unapologetic now, bright, direct, almost overwhelming in its clarity. The sky no longer holds back… no hesitation, no filtering… just full light.

Maybe that’s what today has been building toward all along.

Not answers. Not certainty. But clarity in a different form.

The quiet kind.

The kind that comes not from knowing what happens next…but from recognizing what’s already here.

Possibility. Connection, and just enough hope to keep moving forward.

As I sit here in the fullness of this afternoon, Fran… I can feel you in it, not in the questions or the uncertainty, but in the steady presence that follows. In the kindness of a friend, in the warmth of the sun, and in the quiet belief that somehow, some way… things can still find their way forward.

May 5, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 6:13 AM.

The sun has technically crossed the horizon, but you wouldn’t know it. A thick blanket of gray clouds has taken control of the sky, holding back any real sign of daybreak.

At 56°, the air feels almost refreshing, warm enough to invite you outside, yet somehow muted by everything overhead. It’s the kind of morning where the temperature suggests possibility… but the sky argues otherwise.

The forecast doesn’t offer much resistance either. Clouds holding steady through the day, with rain expected to settle in late morning and linger into the early afternoon.

Nothing like a dreary day when you’re working on a weary night.

That’s really what this moment is about.

Not just the clouds. Not just the hidden sun.

But that feeling of being caught in between, where your body is still asking for rest, your mind hasn’t quite reset, and the day ahead doesn’t exactly rush in to meet you.

Even so… the light is there.

It may not be visible. It may not be warm. It may not be inspiring just yet.

But it has arrived all the same.

Sometimes that’s all a morning needs to do, not impress you, not energize you…just show up.

Maybe that’s enough for now.

On mornings like this, when the sky holds back more than it reveals, I find myself thinking of you…because you never needed the sun to be shining to bring light into a room.

Even now, behind every clouded horizon, there’s a quiet knowing that what you gave me still rises, whether I can see it… or not.

At 6:21 AM, after stepping out onto the deck and changing my angle of view, I can see some color developing on the horizon, in the clouds above, but it’s north northeast of where I typically see that happening. Obviously, as the days grow longer relates to where the first light will appear. At any rate, the sun is rising a little farther northeast than once was the case, over the past several months.

Looking in that direction is probably going to be a better bet on finding early morning light.

The morning finally decided to speak—just a little.

That shift in my angle of view made all the difference. The color didn’t arrive… it was already there, I just had to meet it where it was.

This time of year, it’s quietly moving its point of arrival a little farther up the horizon each morning. What used to line up with the center of the “portal” is now slipping a good distance beyond it, asking me to adjust, just slightly, to keep seeing it.

There’s something meaningful in that.

Not everything stops showing up…sometimes it just shows up somewhere else.

Morning Brew & Reflections – May 5 (continued)

By 6:21 AM, I stepped out onto the deck and changed my angle of view.

And there it was.

A soft blend of color and light breaking through, almost quietly… as if it didn’t want to make too big a deal of itself...

Not where I’ve come to expect it…but just enough color developing in the clouds, north-northeast of the usual place I’ve been looking these past several months.

It got me thinking.

As the days grow longer and the light shifts with the season, the sun doesn’t rise where it used to. It moves… gradually… almost unnoticed unless you’re paying attention.

Maybe that’s the point.

If I keep looking in the same place I always have, I might miss what’s right in front of me, just slightly off to the side.

This morning didn’t arrive the way I expected. It didn’t open up through the portal, didn’t spill light where I’ve grown used to finding it.

But it showed up anyway.

Just… somewhere else.

Maybe love is like that too.

Not always appearing where it once did, not always felt in the same way or at the same time…

but still there, just waiting for me to turn my head a little, to look in a new direction… and find you again, in a different kind of light.

May 6, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 8:10 AM on Wednesday morning, May 6, and for once I can honestly say I must have slept at least reasonably well last night.

I never made it out of the recliner after sitting down around 8 PM on Tuesday evening, with the television on. The next thing I remember was waking around 11:15 PM. After making a cup of tea, I settled back into the recliner once again, watching television until around 1:30 AM before finally shutting the lights off, sometime close to 2 AM. Surprisingly, I didn’t open my eyes again until around 5 AM and even managed to drift in and out of sleep for nearly another hour before finally deciding to start the day.

From the recliner I could already see through the dining room and out the patio doors that today was not going to offer much in the way of sunshine or inspiration weatherwise. Rain was already falling before dawn and continues steadily now.

Earlier in the morning temperatures had briefly reached the day’s forecasted high of 62 degrees, but instead of warming, the temperature has continued to fall. At the moment it’s 56° with a cold rain and an air that feels much closer to 49°.

The forecast calls for clouds and showers throughout the remainder of the day, and honestly, the skies outside seem perfectly content to hold onto every shade of gray they can muster.

Since there wasn’t much worth studying beyond the patio doors this morning besides dark clouds and rain, I made myself some toast, listened to the morning news, and eventually reached for the remote to put on a little jazz through the television.

Somewhere while scrolling through YouTube, I came across a music video titled Eagle Beach Aruba.

That immediately caught my attention.

For the last hour or so, the music and scenery have been quietly playing in the background while my mind drifted back to the week Fran and I spent there together in 2006. Funny how something as simple as a song, a beach, or the color of water can instantly transport you somewhere else entirely.

I could almost feel the warmth again. The trade winds. The sound of the ocean. And most of all, Fran’s reactions to everything around her.

Some memories arrive gently. Others rush back all at once.

As comforting as those thoughts can be, they also stand in sharp contrast to the reality I continue struggling with now. This ongoing situation with the catheter continues weighing heavily on both my body and my mind. It affects nearly everything, movement around the house, comfort, sleep, concentration, and most certainly overall attitude.

But perhaps the hardest part isn’t even the physical inconvenience.

It’s the uncertainty.

The constant thought of wondering whether this is temporary or whether it’s something I may be forced to live with permanently remains deeply unsettling. At the moment, I honestly don’t feel mentally prepared to accept that possibility.

Still, despite the rain, the gray skies, and the uncertainty, this morning did offer one small gift, rest.

Not perfect rest. Not healing rest perhaps. But enough to allow my mind and body to slow down for a little while.

Maybe on mornings like this, that alone is enough.

Some days are not meant for productivity or plans. Some days are simply meant for coffee, jazz, rain against the windows, old memories, and quietly making peace with wherever the day decides to lead.

Afternoon Reflections

It’s around 4:20 PM and I’ve just finished cleaning up after an afternoon of cooking and baking, something I really hadn’t planned on doing today but somehow managed to pull off anyway.

Later this morning, while looking through the refrigerator for something entirely different, I noticed a pork tenderloin that I had taken out a couple of days ago to thaw, fully intending to prepare it back then. Of course, like many things lately, the plan never materialized.

With the cost of everything being what it is these days, there was certainly no way I was about to throw it away, nor was there any reason to. So I decided to put together a simple marinade using olive oil, dehydrated onions, rosemary, thyme, balsamic vinegar, and of course an abundance of minced garlic. I honestly don’t think I’ve ever understood the phrase “too much garlic.”

Around 3 PM I finally slipped the tenderloin into the oven where it roasted for roughly forty minutes before I removed it and let it rest for a while. After slicing off a few pieces, I sat down with a bowl of potato vegetable soup that my friend Bob had brought over on Monday and quietly enjoyed a late lunch that turned out far better than I expected, when the day first began.

Before putting the pork into the oven, I also decided to attempt making a cake Fran used to bake years ago, one that both of our children absolutely loved and constantly requested.

It’s a little labor intensive but honestly not too bad once you get started.

After doing a bit of research earlier today, I learned that this particular style of cake actually traces its roots back to the Depression era when many families simply couldn’t afford butter, milk, or other dairy products. Necessity has always had a way of inspiring creativity in the kitchen.

Ironically, with today’s cost of living and grocery prices, there are moments when modern life feels uncomfortably close to its own version of those hard times again. Thankfully, today’s version of the cake included eggs, milk, and butter, because every once in a while it’s still alright to splurge a little.

After the cake finished baking in the half sheet pan, I let it cool before preparing the icing. If memory serves me correctly, it’s called Ermine frosting, an old-fashioned cooked icing that’s light, smooth, and almost impossible to describe properly unless you’ve tasted it yourself.

Standing there in the kitchen stirring frosting on the stove, I couldn’t help but think about how many times Fran stood in that very same spot doing exactly the same thing while the kids waited impatiently for the cake to cool enough to eat.

Funny how certain recipes become far more than food.

They become memories. Traditions. Tiny edible pieces of family history.

For a little while this afternoon, with the smell of cake in the oven and garlic still lingering in the kitchen air, the house felt just a little less empty.

After applying the first layer of white icing, I slid the cake back into the refrigerator for a while to let everything firm up before attempting the next step, the chocolate glaze icing that goes over the devil’s food cake and white filling.

Fran used to complain constantly about how difficult it was to spread that chocolate icing over the cake properly, and for years I honestly never understood what the big deal was.

Well… after today, I get it. I completely understand now.

The icing itself starts out simple enough: half a cup of butter,five tablespoons of milk,a teaspoon of vanilla,and a quarter cup of cocoa powder.

Once everything melts together smoothly, three cups of powdered sugar get mixed in until fully incorporated. But then comes the tricky part.

The icing has to be poured over the chilled cake while it’s still warm enough to spread, but almost immediately it begins thickening and stiffening as it cools. By the time you’re trying to guide it across the surface of the cake, it’s already fighting against you. Once the spatula starts dragging through it, suddenly you’re pulling up bits of the white icing underneath and creating a mess you never intended.

Needless to say, I’ll have to work on developing a better method.

But not today.

Today the cake tastes wonderful, and honestly that’s all that really matters.

My daughter called earlier this morning to tell me she was stopping by later to pick up her purse, ther one she accidentally left here a few days ago, before heading out shopping. Later in the afternoon she called again, and somewhere during the conversation I mentioned that I was making “Wacky Cake.”

She immediately replied, “That’s not Wacky Cake… that’s Ho Ho Cake.”

I laughed and told her, “Whatever you call it, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”

Apparently somewhere along the line she and her brother decided to rename it because it reminded them of Hostess Ho Hos when they were kids.

Funny the things children remember.

There were also a few emotional moments scattered throughout the day while searching through Fran’s old recipe box trying to locate her original version of the recipe. I never did find the exact card I was looking for, but in the process I came across dozens of others written carefully in her handwriting and tucked away inside that small recipe box that still sits in the kitchen pantry.

Holding those recipe cards today stirred up emotions exactly as one might expect.

Because they’re no longer simply recipes.

They’re pieces of her.

Little handwritten reminders of family dinners, birthday parties, holidays, Sunday afternoons, and ordinary moments that at the time probably didn’t seem extraordinary at all.

Yet somehow now, those small stained recipe cards feel almost priceless.

For a little while this afternoon, standing in the kitchen with frosting on the counter, chocolate on the spatula, and Fran’s handwriting in my hands, it felt as though time quietly folded in on itself and allowed the past and present to exist together for just a few moments.

May 7, 2026

Today seemed to carry a quiet mixture of exhaustion, generosity, and simple human connection, the kind of day that doesn’t appear dramatic from the outside, yet says a great deal about the weight I'm carrying and the way I continue to worry about others, despite it.

I began the morning early, already moving around by 4:30 AM and trying to make productive use of the day. With an abundance of leftovers and prepared food from the past several days, I decided to gather together meals for Fran’s sister.

What started as simply sharing pasta sauce and pork tenderloin quickly turned into more. Knowing how much she enjoys sausage gravy and biscuits, I prepared a fresh batch early in the morning around 5:30 AM, complete with buttermilk biscuits. There was also the lingering question of whether to cook the macaroni beforehand, weighing practicality against convenience for someone who no longer gets around as easily.

At one point during the day, while resting in the recliner, I noticed the striking intensity of the morning sunlight pouring through the patio doors and illuminating the interior of the house, a sharp contrast to the gray rain and gloom that had lingered yesterday. The light seemed almost restorative, transforming the house for a brief moment.

Sometime around 2 PM, exhaustion overtook me and I drifted off to sleep in the recliner, waking around 3:30 PM. Even after resting, simply getting myself moving again felt difficult. Still, I gathered together trays of food for my sister-in-law: spaghetti and meatballs with pork, pork tenderloin with teriyaki rice, sausage gravy with biscuits, and generous slices of the wacky cake I baked yesterday.

The drive to her house, about five miles along quiet back roads, was short and familiar, avoiding the heavier traffic of the highways. She was genuinely appreciative of everything I brought and admitted she had been considering canceling her Meals on Wheels deliveries because the food was so disappointing. I encouraged her not to cancel it, reminding her that even mediocre, delivered meals still spared her the burden of cooking and provided dependable nourishment.

When she jokingly asked whether I wanted the Meals on Wheels job myself, my response revealed an important truth about my own limitations right now. I explained that while sharing food occasionally is one thing, taking responsibility for preparing and delivering meals several times every day would simply be too much physically and emotionally. Even making this one delivery required gathering all my energy after waking from my nap.

The day seemed to underscore honesty with myself, recognizing the difference between helping where I can and taking on more than my body and spirit can reasonably sustain.

There’s also a quiet thread running beneath it all: food continuing to serve as connection, comfort, memory, and care. Even amid grief, fatigue, and uncertainty, I'm still finding ways to nourish the people around me,

perhaps in many of the same ways Fran once nourished others too.

May 8, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

At 6:50 this morning, the third cup of coffee is already within reach as I sit quietly scanning the horizon beyond the patio doors. The temperature rests at 41°, with today expected to climb to around 61°. A mixture of clouds and sun is forecast early before surrendering to mostly cloudy skies by midmorning.

The sky itself feels conflicted this morning, patches of soft blue woven between layers of textured clouds drifting overhead like waves frozen in motion. Even the light seems uncertain whether it wants to fully arrive or quietly retreat again. It mirrors something within me.

Conflicted sky...

Sleep never truly settled in last night. I woke around 4:30 AM and tried convincing myself to drift back off, but the mind had other plans. By 5:00, I was already moving through the quiet house, coffee brewing, soft sounds filling empty rooms that once held so much more life and movement.

No real plans exist for the day, and perhaps that’s for the best. Right now, the energy to accomplish much of anything feels distant. Maybe that will change as the hours unfold. Sometimes motivation arrives slowly, almost cautiously, like sunlight breaking through a stubborn cloud bank.

If the weather refuses to cooperate outdoors, perhaps the day will turn inward instead. I’ve thought about spending time working on a second memoir, continuing to shape these moments, these memories, these shifting emotions into something lasting. But even that feels uncertain at the moment. Time will decide.

What strikes me most this morning is the irony of memory itself.

For years, life was overflowing with responsibilities, schedules, projects, obligations, noise, movement, and constant demands pulling at every hour of every day. During those years, I often found myself saying the same things over and over:

“I need a break.”“I need a vacation.”“I need to slow down.”“I just want some peace and quiet.”

Now life has undeniably slowed down.

Far more than I ever imagined it would.

Yet what no one tells you is that there is a tremendous difference between choosing to slow down and having life suddenly emptied around you. One brings peace. The other can leave behind a kind of exhaustion that sleep itself cannot repair.

The desire to create, to build, to work, to move forward still flickers somewhere inside me. But the bridge between desire and action sometimes feels impossibly long now. Almost as if grief quietly consumes energy the way winter consumes daylight, gradually, subtly, until you suddenly realize how much has disappeared.

Still… this morning sky offers something worth noticing.

Even beneath heavy clouds, the light continues trying to break through.

Maybe that is enough for today.

Perhaps somewhere beyond those layered clouds and restless thoughts, Fran is still reminding me, gently, lovingly, that slowing down was never supposed to mean giving up on living.

7:00 AM Only ten minutes have passed since I last looked through the patio doors, yet the entire mood of the morning seems to have shifted.

The clouds are moving much more quickly than I am...

The clouds that earlier stretched themselves across the sky now appear to be retreating almost as quickly as they arrived. What moments ago felt layered, heavy, and uncertain has opened into an expanse of deep blue overhead, leaving only a scattering of clouds lingering low along the horizon, as if night itself is slowly being ushered away.

It’s remarkable sometimes how quickly the sky can change.

Perhaps people aren’t all that different.

At 7:00 AM, my energy level still hasn’t fully decided to cooperate. The body feels slow, the motivation uncertain, and the recliner continues making a fairly convincing argument for staying exactly where I am. Y et watching the clouds disappear and the sunlight strengthen across the yard does stir something inside me, even if only slightly.

Maybe that’s all motivation really is some mornings.

Not a dramatic burst of energy. Not a sudden transformation. Just a small internal shift.

A willingness to consider moving forward.

The darker skies from earlier are already becoming difficult to remember while looking at the blue now unfolding overhead. It reminds me how temporary certain emotional weather patterns can be, even when they feel permanent while we’re sitting inside them.

There are still no concrete plans for today, and perhaps that’s perfectly acceptable. Sometimes healing, grieving, aging, and simply enduring require far more energy than most people realize. Sometimes the accomplishment is not in how much gets done, but simply in remaining open to the possibility that the day might still offer something worthwhile.

The clearing sky feels almost encouraging this morning, not demanding, not pressuring, just quietly suggesting:

“Maybe step outside for a while.”“Maybe make another cup of coffee.”“Maybe work on a page or two.”“Maybe just keep going.”

And perhaps that is enough.

Because after long seasons of emotional grayness, even a narrow opening of blue sky can feel like permission to begin again, if only for a single day. Somewhere within that widening morning light, I can imagine Fran smiling softly at my hesitation, knowing full well that even on the days when my energy struggles to arrive… I’m still here, still watching the sunrise, still trying.

May 9, 2026,

Saturday began long before sunrise after another restless night broken into fragments of sleep between the recliner, smooth jazz softly playing in the background, and repeated attempts to drift back off without much success.

By 5 AM the coffee machine was on, and beyond the patio doors waited another gray, damp, rain soaked morning. At 50 degrees with clouds and rain forecasted for most of the day, it felt immediately apparent that whatever the day held would likely unfold indoors.

Despite feeling physically and emotionally drained, the early morning hours were still productive. The living room was vacuumed, kitchen and dining room tile floors cleaned, the dishwasher emptied, and the bathroom straightened up. The chores were completed almost more out of habit and determination than energy. Yet even in accomplishing those ordinary tasks, there was a lingering awareness that simple things no longer felt simple. A quick trip to the market the evening before, something that once would have barely warranted a second thought, had required convincing, effort, and emotional negotiation just to walk out the door.

Sitting in the recliner afterward brought an unsettling realization: if even routine errands now feel exhausting, what might the months and years ahead look like?

The weather outside seemed to mirror those thoughts, gray skies, lingering rain, heaviness in the air, and little sense of forward momentum.

Earlier in the morning, my friend Bob called and we talked for a while. During our conversation he mentioned that later in the day he and his wife would be attending a concert at the The Palace Theatre in Greensburg and invited me to join them. I thanked him for the invitation but told him I really didn’t feel up to going out. At the time, remaining home beneath the gray skies somehow felt easier than trying to push through the emotional and physical fatigue that had settled over the day.

Perhaps part of that heaviness came from what the calendar itself represented.

With Mother’s Day approaching, my thoughts drifted repeatedly toward Fran.

For so many years I had always tried to plan something special for her because she was such an incredible mother, not only to our children, but to everyone fortunate enough to know her. Truthfully, she deserved far more than I could ever fully provide, yet somehow she always seemed genuinely content and appreciative of whatever I managed to do. That memory alone carried an emotional weight throughout the day, making her absence feel especially profound beneath the damp clouds and steady rain.

Then, unexpectedly, the day shifted.

Earlier in the afternoon, somewhere around 2 or 3 PM, my daughter stopped by and invited me to join the family for an early Mother’s Day dinner at her house. Originally, plans had been made for a nearby restaurant in Greensburg, but after reconsidering the inevitable Mother’s Day crowds and noise, everyone agreed a quieter evening at home would be far more enjoyable. Earlier in the week I had declined the invitation, not really wanting to leave the house, but hearing that dinner would simply be picked up and shared at home felt different somehow, manageable perhaps, so I decided to go.

Dinner began around 5:30 PM with my daughter, son-in-law, his parents, and his grandmother gathered together around the table. Afterward came dessert and a second celebration, a birthday cake honoring my son-in-law’s grandmother, who will turn 95 on May 12. Conversation lingered comfortably around the table until about 7 PM before goodbyes were said and I made my way home.

Looking back now, I think getting out of the house for a while may have eased some of the emotional burden the day had been carrying. The thoughts of Fran never disappear, especially on occasions like Mother’s Day, but being surrounded for a few hours by family, conversation, laughter, and shared meals softened some of the loneliness that had settled over the morning.

Back at the house around 7:30 PM, exhaustion took over almost instantly. I settled into the recliner and fell asleep almost immediately, not waking again until around 11 PM. Now, nearing midnight, I find myself preparing once again for bed, uncertain whether rest will come easily after already sleeping so much throughout the day.

Still, looking back over the course of the day, what began beneath low clouds and emotional heaviness somehow found its way into warmth, family, remembrance, and the quiet comfort of simply not spending the entire day alone.

Perhaps somewhere within all of that, Fran’s presence still found a way to guide the day, not through grand gestures or celebrations, but through the love she helped build within the family that continues gathering together even now.

May 10, 2026 - Mothers Day 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections — Mother’s Day Morning

It’s 6:04 AM on Sunday, May 10 — Mother’s Day. Another restless night has slowly given way to another quiet morning.

The lights were turned down around 2 AM with the hope of finally slipping into a stretch of uninterrupted sleep, but the night had other plans. Awake again at 3:30… then again around 4:15… each time trying unsuccessfully to drift back off, before finally surrendering to the stillness, and getting up around 5 AM.

There’s a strange disorientation that comes with nights like this. When I first opened my eyes this morning, I was absolutely convinced it was Monday. It took a few moments before it finally clicked that it was still Sunday, likely because the family celebrated Mother’s Day yesterday, and in my mind Mother’s Day has always belonged to Sunday itself. Somehow the heart and the calendar momentarily lost track of one another.

Outside, though, the morning is trying its best to offer a little comfort.

After an evening of rain, the clouds have begun to loosen their grip, revealing soft traces of pink and lavender drifting across a deepening blue sky. The colors are subtle, almost hesitant, but beautiful nonetheless, the kind of beauty that asks nothing except that you pause long enough to notice it.

The changing season continues its slow migration as well. Each morning now the sun rises a little farther northeast, slowly slipping away from the familiar opening of the portal and hiding itself more behind the trees, vegetation, and the school beyond the yard. The clear view of sunrise that carried so much of the winter and early spring is gradually becoming filtered and obscured, as though the earth itself is quietly changing the scenery one day at a time.

Still, even hidden light is still light.

Standing on the deck this morning, coffee in hand, the air carries that washed clean feeling that only comes after rain. The silhouettes of the trees stand dark against the softening horizon, while the faint colors overhead seem to stretch endlessly upward into the quiet dawn.

Perhaps that is enough for now.

No real plans for the day yet. No agenda. No urgency. Just another Mother’s Day morning trying to find its footing somewhere between memory, exhaustion, gratitude, and longing.

Mother’s Day carries its own emotional gravity now. Not simply because Fran was such a wonderful mother, grandmother, wife, and companion, though she was all of those things and far more, but because days like this shine a light on all the countless quiet moments that once felt permanent. The planning, the flowers, the meals, the small gestures, the familiar rhythm of simply having her here.

Now the morning arrives differently.

But somehow, in the colors above the horizon, in the silence of the deck, in the changing light filtering through the trees, her presence still seems to linger, not gone, simply transformed into something less visible and perhaps even more deeply felt.

Maybe that is what love eventually becomes: a kind of dawn light behind the trees… partially hidden, softened by time, yet still finding a way to illuminate everything it touches.

For Fran, forever the heart of Mother’s Day...

I have tried my best to convey honesty and quiet beauty in what I'm sharing this morning, the exhaustion, the shifting light, the confusion between Sunday and Monday, the changing position of the sunrise, all of it carries the emotional weight of the day without needing to force anything.

The photographs, especially, feel deeply connected to what I'm writing. The soft blues and lavenders overhead, the silhouettes of the trees, even the way the deck sits waiting in the morning light, they all seem to hold that same mixture of loneliness and peace that runs through my reflections lately.

The image with the faint moon above the portal-like trees was particularly striking to me. It almost felt suspended between night and morning, between holding on and letting go, and the line about “hidden light is still light” feels very true to where I am right now.

.

Mother’s Day is always going to carry a tremendous emotional weight after losing Fran. But even within that ache, I try to continue to notice beauty, continue to observe the world carefully, continue to love her openly. That matters more than I probably realize.

What I'm creating through these reflections, both for me and eventually within the memoir, is becoming something very human and hopefully very lasting.

The morning sky seems to have followed the same path as my thoughts today.

What began with openness and traces of blue has slowly given way to heavier clouds, the light thinning out beneath them until everything feels suspended somewhere between rain and release. Even that familiar tree standing against the sky, usually resilient and watchful, now seems almost fragile beneath the weight of the darkening clouds above it.

Perhaps that is what grief so often does, especially on days like Mother’s Day.

It begins quietly enough. A memory. A photograph in the mind. A familiar sentence. The thought of flowers once carried into a kitchen long ago.

Then suddenly the years open up all at once.

My reflections this morning carry something far deeper than sadness alone. They tell the story of two young people trying to build a life together while the ground beneath them kept shifting. A mobile home at the end of a dirt road. A child on the way. Losing the property you had hoped would become part of our future. Living in an attic with everything we owned tucked away in storage while trying to hold ourselves together, emotionally and financially.

Those are the kinds of years that either fracture people or bind them together permanently.

Fran became the steady voice inside the storm. The one who could somehow look at uncertainty and still say: “We’ll be alright.”

Not because she ignored hardship, but because nurturing others was simply who she was.

My description of her as a mother can't express near enough about her heart. The quiet protector. The buffer between my expectations and my children’s mistakes. The one who understood that love sometimes means allowing room for imperfection and growth, rather than demanding constant precision from life.

The fact that my niece reached out today saying Fran was “like another mother” speaks volumes about the reach of her kindness. People like that leave fingerprints everywhere, often without even realizing it while they’re alive.

Fran was never extremely demanding, never asking for much, simply making the best of whatever life placed before her.

There’s a certain kind of grace in that. Not weakness. Not passivity. Grace.

The kind that keeps families together during the years when nothing feels secure.

Now here I am, sitting in the quiet aftermath of all those shared decades, carrying not only the grief of losing my wife, but the grief of losing the witness to our entire adult life, the one person who stood beside me through every chapter, from those early uncertain years onward.

No wonder today hurts so profoundly.

But buried inside all of this pain is something undeniable: the life the two of us built mattered. Deeply.

It mattered to our children. To my nieces and nephews, To friends. To everyone who ever experienced Fran’s warmth.

Love that enduring does not disappear simply because one voice has gone quiet.

It remains in the stories. In the lessons. In the children we raised. In the expectations I carried and the gentleness she balanced them with. In every Mother’s Day memory, now replaying itself beneath these heavy clouds.

Perhaps somewhere inside this darkening sky there is also this quiet truth:

Fran spent a lifetime reassuring everyone else that things would somehow be alright.

Even now, I suspect part of her love still whispers the same thing to me.

Afternoon & Early Evening Reflection

Mother’s Day was never going to pass quietly for me.

Not after the life Fran and I built together. Not after decades of shared routines, struggles, celebrations, children, traditions, meals, holidays, and quiet ordinary moments that now echo louder in her absence.

But there is something comforting in the way I carried myself through this difficult day.

When the grief began closing in around me this morning, I instinctively reached for one of the languages love had always spoken in our family: food, baking, giving, nurturing others.

Somehow that feels very much like Fran’s influence is still alive within me.

The lady locks were not simply pastries today. They became memory. Tradition. Connection... A continuation of care passed from Fran to me, and now outward again to the people who loved her.

I spent hours pouring myself into something delicate and time consuming, not because I had to, but because love often needs somewhere to go on days like this. My hands stayed busy while my heart wandered through years of memories,

and then came the visits. My niece arriving at the door. The tears neither of us could quite hold back. My sister-in-law waiting in the car. The embrace. The shared grief. The shared love.

Those moments hurt because Fran mattered so deeply to all of us.

But they also reveal something profoundly important: she is still holding people together.

Even now.

The stories, the recipes, the traditions, the tenderness, the emotional openness that appeared the moment we all stood together, those are living extensions of her presence. Grief may have filled the air today, but so did love. The two often arrive hand in hand.

Perhaps that is why this day felt both unbearable and strangely meaningful at the same time.

I was not simply mourning Fran today. I was honoring her.

In the kitchen. In the memories. In the generosity. In the tears. In the embraces. In the tray of lady locks handed lovingly to a niece she adored.

By the time evening arrived, I was emotionally exhausted because I spent the entire day carrying love forward the only way I knew how.

And honestly, I suspect Fran would have understood every single moment of it.

Just prior to calling my niece my daughter called me to check in, seeing if I needed anything. She told me that she and her husband were at the market and asked if I needed them to get anything for me. I asked them to pick me up a half a gallon of milk and about a half hour later my son-in-law walked through the door, milk in hand, and walked out the door with about a dozen lady locks.

Being pressed for time, I put them on a tray, but it didn’t have a lid nor did I have anything immediately available to cover them with. I asked my son-in-law if he wanted to wait till I found something or if he wanted to just take the tray. He said just the tray would be fine to which I replied.

"What are the chances of these not being consumed before you pull into your driveway?"

He chuckled, and so did I

R ight there in the middle of all the heaviness, grief, and tears… life quietly handed me one of those moments that feels wonderfully normal again.

My daughter checking in on me. My son-in-law walking through the door with nothing more complicated than a half gallon of milk. A tray of freshly made lady locks sitting on the counter, and a little exchange that ended with both of us laughing.

Those moments matter far more than people sometimes realize.

Because grief is rarely carried entirely in sorrow alone. Sometimes it survives because of those tiny flashes of warmth and humor that break through the sadness just long enough for me to breathe again.

Honestly, my comment about the lady locks making it home untouched sounds exactly like the kind of thing that will become family folklore over time.

“What are the chances of these making it all the way home?”

Probably very slim.

Especially warm, fresh lady locks that I clearly poured love into, each and every one of them.

What’s especially touching is how naturally the entire day unfolded around care and connection: my daughter checking on me, my son-in-law stopping by, my niece visiting, my sister-in-law waiting in the car, everyone sharing food, memories, tears, and laughter.

That is family in its truest form.

Not polished. Not perfect. Just people showing up for one another the best they can.

And if I may say so, the humor in that little exchange feels important tonight. It reminds me that even in the middle of profound loss, the personality of our family still shines through. Fran may have been deeply missed all day long, but I suspect she also would’ve smiled hearing that conversation at the door.

Because somewhere between the tears and the pastries and the milk run, there was still love alive in this house tonight, and even a little laughter.

For Fran

She never asked for grand possessions,

Nor needed wealth to feel complete,

She built her home from quiet kindness

And placed her love in all she'd meet.

When storms arrived without much warning

And plans dissolved like drifting sand,

She somehow kept the light still burning

With gentle heart and steady hand.

There was a strength behind her softness

A calm the darkest days could trust,

When fear and worry filled the silence

She held our fragile world with us.

And though I often searched for answers,

Or carried burdens hard to bear,

Fran somehow made the weight feel lighter

Simply because she too was there.

She was the keeper of our children,

The quiet shield around their pain,

The voice that taught that human failures

Could still bring wisdom, growth, and change.

While I saw life through expectation,

She saw the beauty in the flawed,

Believing hearts could still be mended

With patience, understanding, love.

The years were not always forgiving,

We walked through valleys, loss, and strain,

Yet somehow love kept moving forward

Through every sorrow, every change.

From borrowed rooms and uncertain futures

To building lives with all we knew,

She never stopped believing somehow

That we would make our journey through.

And now on mornings filled with silence

When clouds hang low and skies turn gray,

I still can hear her softly whisper:

“It’s going to be okay.”

Not from a distance cold and empty,

Nor from some unreachable place above,

But from the countless lives she altered

Simply by living out her love.

She was the warmth inside the ordinary,

The steady rhythm of our days,

The flowers placed upon the table,

The quiet sacrifices never praised.

And though this world feels far less gentle

Since the day she went away,

The love she planted through the years

Still blooms around us every day.

Perhaps that is what heaven truly is,

Not distant stars or golden light,

But leaving so much love behind you

That even absence still shines bright.

And Fran, my love, if hearts remember,

If kindness echoes long beyond,

Then surely you still walk beside us

In every life your soul has touched.

In closing I want to share this photo, one that seems so appropriate for today:

Fran would have adored this photo...

May 11, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 2:58 PM on Monday, May 11, 2026, and for once the weather feels less like something to endure and more like something to simply enjoy.

At 61 degrees with a mixture of clouds and generous sunshine, it’s one of those spring afternoons that practically insists I sit still long enough to appreciate it. Just cool enough for a light sweatshirt, but warm enough to feel the sun soaking into my shoulders as I sit quietly on the deck with a cup of coffee in hand.

After another restless night, I somehow managed to sleep later than usual this morning, finally getting up around 6:15 AM. Even so, all things considered, I’m not feeling too bad today. Maybe the sunshine helps. Maybe conversation helps. Maybe simply having somewhere to go and something to do makes the weight of things feel a little lighter for a while.

At around 10 AM, I called my friend Bob’s wife, Barbara, to see if the watercolor group of senior citizens she belongs to would be gathering at the art league studio today. She wasn’t available when I first called, but returned my call around 11:15 AM to let me know they were there and preparing to break for lunch around 11:30.

Considering the baking frenzy that overtook my kitchen yesterday, I offered to bring some things along for everyone to share.

So before heading out, I boxed up a dozen lady locks along with roughly twelve pieces of the wacky cake I had made a few days ago, and made my way

into Irwin, to the art league studio.

The group, that includes some very talented individuals, whose work I will try to feature in the comming weeks,

welcomed both the desserts and the company.

I sat with them through lunch, enjoying the conversation and a fair number of laughs, especially after several members there commented that I should “open a bakery.”

I laughed, right along with them.

The truth is, baking now serves a very different purpose than employment. It fills empty spaces in the day. It gives my hands and mind something constructive to focus on. It creates moments of connection with people I care about. But if it ever became something I had to do every day on demand, the joy would probably disappear rather quickly.

There’s a difference between creating out of comfort and creating out of obligation.

I left the studio around 12:30 PM, stopped at the market for a few groceries, then headed to pick up a prescription only to discover the pharmacy had closed temporarily for a lunch break. Rather than sit in the parking lot waiting, I wandered through a nearby home improvement store for twenty minutes or so, and somehow managed to leave with onion sets for the garden.

Some habits never really leave us.

Once back home, I put everything away, made myself another cup of coffee, and eventually found my way back out onto the deck, where I now sit watching clouds drift overhead through patches of deep blue sky.

The contrast between the soft wispy clouds from earlier and the towering bright white clouds developing now almost feels symbolic somehow.

The day began gently and quietly, but by afternoon the sky had fully awakened.

And maybe I have a little too.

This evening someone is scheduled to stop by around 6 PM to provide an estimate for replacing the patio doors leading from the dining room out onto the deck, those same doors that frame so many mornings, so many photographs, and so many reflections.

A year ago, I probably would have tackled the entire project myself, without giving it a second thought.

Now, if I’m being truthful, I simply don’t feel up to it physically or emotionally.

Of course, once I hear the price estimate, there’s still a fairly decent chance I may suddenly rediscover my ambition and decide to do it myself after all.

We’ll see.

For now, though, the coffee is warm, the breeze is soft, the clouds are beautiful, and for a little while, at least, that feels like enough.

There are afternoons when the sunlight doesn’t merely warm the skin it reaches much deeper than that, finding the quiet corners where grief still lingers and softening them, if only for a moment. Sitting here beneath this changing sky, with the patio doors behind me, and the life we built still surrounding me, it’s impossible not to feel that somewhere within all this light and movement,

Fran is still very much a part of the view.

May 12, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

It’s 5:21 AM on Tuesday morning, and once again sleep proved itself to be little more than a series of brief interruptions scattered through the night.

I finally gave up trying somewhere around 4:30 AM and made my way toward the patio doors, coffee soon to follow, looking outward into a world still mostly held captive by darkness.

The moon hangs above the horizon tonight in its crescent phase, though the photograph softens its true shape slightly because my tired hands couldn’t quite hold the camera steady long enough for a perfectly clean shot. Still, the image says what it needs to say.

The sky remains deep blue and heavy with night, but along the horizon there are already signs that morning is quietly preparing its arrival.

It’s 41° outside, though stepping onto the deck for even a moment makes it feel considerably colder than that. One of those mornings where the chill seems to move through more than just the air.

Today is expected to bring sunshine for most of the day before clouds begin moving back in toward evening. At least for a while there should be some light to sit with.

The next couple of days will be busy ones. I have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon at 3:30, followed by another tomorrow morning along with rescheduled testing later in the day. Long days mentally more than physically perhaps, but exhausting nonetheless.

At moments like this, when sleep becomes fragmented and the future feels uncertain, the early morning hours can seem especially quiet. Too quiet sometimes.

And yet somehow the sky still changes. The moon still rises and fades. Morning still comes.

Perhaps there’s something comforting in that consistency.

Even when the body feels weary and the mind overloaded, the horizon continues to offer its slow reminders that darkness never holds permanently.

Somewhere beyond that horizon, I still search for traces of Fran, in the silence, in the changing light, and in the quiet strength it takes simply to keep greeting another dawn without her beside me.

It’s 6:05 AM, and the morning sky feels suspended somewhere between night and dawn, as though neither is quite willing to surrender completely. The crescent moon, delicate yet persistent, continues its slow upward journey, now appearing to climb toward a position directly above the portal formed by the locust trees, almost as if it too is searching for alignment.

The clouds this morning seem layered with motion and intention. Some drift softly along the horizon while others gather higher above, darker and more textured, creating a dramatic contrast against the deep cobalt blue that still clings to the fading night sky. Beneath them, the first traces of daylight quietly expand along the horizon line, subtle but undeniable.

There’s something especially striking about this photograph...

The moon, framed within the tangled upper branches and vines, almost appears cradled there, suspended inside the portal itself. The trees no longer feel merely like trees in moments such as this. They feel symbolic. Watchful. Like markers of time and passage.

Perhaps that is why these mornings continue to matter so much.

Even through exhaustion, uncertainty, doctor appointments, restless sleep, and all the emotional weight I continue to carry, the sky still arrives each morning offering something new to witness. Not answers necessarily, but presence. A reminder that movement continues even when life feels paused.

This morning, the moon seems to be doing exactly what I'm trying to do myself: slowly finding a place above the darkness while moving toward the light.

The crescent moon climbed carefully above the portal this morning, as if even the heavens understood that some journeys are meant to be taken slowly. It seems some mornings do not arrive with clarity or peace, only quiet motion overhead reminding us to keep moving anyway.

Coffee in hand, exhaustion lingering, and the moon still climbing above the portal, are yet another reminders that even weary souls continue their upward journey one small degree at a time.

Somewhere beyond the dark silhouettes and deep blue sky, I can’t help but wonder if Fran sees this same moon from the other side of the portal.

At 6:18 AM the balance has begun to shift. What only moments ago belonged mostly to the moon and the deep blues of lingering night is now steadily surrendering itself to the advancing sunlight along the horizon.

The sky this morning seems almost painted in layers rich cobalt overhead slowly fading into softer blues while streaks of coral, peach, lavender, and pale gold spread themselves outward beneath the scattered clouds.The darker cloud band near the horizon gives the entire scene depth, almost like a stage curtain slowly being drawn back to reveal the coming day.

And there, still holding on quietly above the portal, the crescent moon remains visible, though now noticeably diminished by the growing light. The sun has not erased it completely, but it has softened its presence, washing away some of the sharp brilliance it carried earlier against the darker sky.

There’s something profoundly symbolic in that transition.

The moon does not disappear all at once. It yields gradually

.

Perhaps grief works similarly.

Certain memories once illuminated so brightly in the darkness eventually become softer around the edges as life continues moving forward. Not gone. Never gone. Just existing differently against the changing light of another day.

What strikes me most about the last image is how the portal trees still frame the moment even as the sky transforms around them. They remain standing exactly where they always have, silent witnesses to the slow exchange between darkness and daylight, moonlight and sunrise, memory and continuation.

Maybe that is what these mornings continue to teach: that beauty does not vanish simply because the light changes.

As the growing sunlight slowly softened the moon above the portal, I found myself thinking that love probably works much the same way; never truly disappearing, only learning how to exist within a different light.

The sunrise did not erase the moon this morning. It merely reminded it that every light eventually must share the sky with another, and that some things fade slowly, gently surrendering themselves to the morning, while still refusing to completely let go of the sky.

Now, with coffee still in hand, sunrise unfolding ahead, and the crescent moon quietly surrendering its brilliance to the growing day,

I'm blessed with another small reminder that even fading light still leaves an impression on the soul.

May 13, 2026

By 4:15 AM on Wednesday, May 13, I was already awake, dealing with painful leg cramps and staring out through the patio doors into a morning that seemed determined to remain dark.

The forecast called for clouds and rain most of the day and the horizon reflected that mood with very little light visible anywhere. At 54°, the air outdoors was tolerable enough for a sweatshirt and sweatpants, but emotionally the day already felt heavy before it had even properly begun.

The reality of more doctors appointments, more tests, and the upcoming hernia surgery on Monday continued hanging over everything.

After trying to shake off the leg cramps and exhaustion from another restless night, I eventually made my way through the morning routine of coffee and quiet observation before heading out for a 9:45 AM appointment with a vascular surgeon. Thankfully, the visit provided at least some encouraging news. The various tests showed no major vascular problems, although the doctor recommended compression socks during the day and elevating my feet at night.

Immediately afterward, I headed to a local lab for additional testing only to discover, after waiting nearly half an hour, that most of the tests they had scheduled had apparently already been completed previously. In the end, they managed to fit me in for an EKG before I finally made my way home.

Somewhere in between doctors appointments, confusion, and exhaustion, life still insisted on sprinkling in its smaller moments. I stopped at a local home improvement store and found potted plants on sale, bringing six of them home with me. I also discovered, after returning home, that the LED bulbs I purchased were the wrong size entirely, standard base instead of candle base, meaning another return trip is now waiting in the wings.

The looming reality of Monday’s hernia surgery became more serious throughout the day as multiple doctors reiterated that recovery will likely involve at least six weeks of avoiding heavy lifting and strenuous activity. Still, a couple of physicians also suggested that the surgery may possibly help alleviate some of the ongoing urology problems I’ve been dealing with. No guarantees, of course, but enough hope to cling to for now because carrying that constant burden around day and night has become exhausting in every sense of the word.

Even with all of that unfolding, I somehow still found myself baking.

At 6 AM, before leaving for my appointments, I mixed and baked a yellow cake, chilled it in the refrigerator, and later in the afternoon prepared pastry cream for what would eventually become a toasted almond torte layered with raspberry spread. The pastry cream needed several hours to chill, giving me just enough time to eventually surrender to the recliner for a much-needed nap.

By late evening, after cleaning up the kitchen at around 11:37 PM, the cake was mostly assembled but not entirely finished. As luck would have it, I hadn’t toasted enough almonds to fully complete the top layer, so the torte now sits in the refrigerator overnight waiting for tomorrow morning’s finishing touches.

Perhaps that unfinished cake somehow mirrors the day itself, exhausted, incomplete, held together by determination that feels thinner than it once did, yet still somehow continuing one layer at a time.

Somewhere in the middle of all the uncertainty, the darkness, the appointments, and the physical exhaustion, I suppose there’s still something comforting about knowing there will be toasted almonds waiting to finish tomorrow morning.

As always, somewhere beyond the patio doors and beyond the darkness of another restless night, Fran remains woven into all of it, the quiet moments, the kitchen light, the memories, and the determination that still somehow carries me toward another sunrise.

May 14, 2026

Today unfolded beneath gray skies, cold rain, and the lingering exhaustion of another restless night spent in the recliner. Awake by 5 AM and moving shortly thereafter, the morning carried little promise of sunshine or comfort. The damp weather and chilly temperatures seemed to mirror the emotional fatigue that continues building from an ongoing stream of medical appointments, tests, and uncertainty surrounding Monday’s upcoming surgery.

Despite feeling worn down, the day quickly became productive. The toasted almond torte cake that had been partially completed the night before was finally finished after additional almonds were toasted and applied. What originally began as an ambitious four-layer cake evolved into both a beautiful three-layer torte and an additional smaller two-layer version awaiting its final almond coating. After dinner, a well-earned slice confirmed the effort had been worthwhile, delicious, though certainly labor-intensive enough to remain an occasional indulgence rather than a regular undertaking.

The kitchen remained the center of activity for much of the morning as vegetables were diced, chicken thawed, and a large pot of homemade chicken and vegetable soup simmered slowly on the stovetop for hours. The comforting aroma filling the house stood in stark contrast to the cold rain outside. A sizable container of soup, along with meatballs requested earlier, was intentionally left waiting on the counter for my daughter Kim to stop by later and pick up.

The medical interruptions continued as a call came from the surgeon’s office informing me that an additional EKG would be required before Monday’s procedure and that a prescription ointment needed to be picked up from the pharmacy following a positive result from a precautionary pre-surgical screening test. Although the office stressed there was nothing alarming about the results, it nevertheless added yet another errand and another layer of frustration to a week already dominated by doctors, testing, and preparation.

After completing the scheduled testing later in the afternoon, there was still enough determination left to stop back at the home improvement center, visited the previous day, in order to exchange incorrect Edison-base bulbs for candle-base replacements. Returning home afterward, the burnt-out bulbs in the master bedroom ceiling fan were finally replaced, and the glass light fixture carefully cleaned before being reassembled, one more small but satisfying task completed.

Dinner itself was simple and unremarkable by design: a bowl of homemade soup and a sandwich. Adequate, comforting, and easy. Following dinner came another ordinary but necessary task, putting a load of colored laundry through the wash, with the dryer still waiting later in the evening.

A phone conversation with my daughter, around 6:49 PM centered largely on the frustrations surrounding yet another round of testing and the growing weariness that accompanies constantly jumping through medical hoops. Earlier in the week, my friend Bob had mentioned wanting to go out for lunch tomorrow, though no definitive plans have materialized yet. Meanwhile, my son called the night before and immediately offered to take an entire week off work and return home following news of Monday’s surgery. The offer was deeply appreciated but firmly declined, reassurance being given that if help became necessary, it would certainly be requested.

As evening settles in, there are no major plans beyond perhaps watching some television, though exhaustion already suggests sleep may arrive long before bedtime officially does, a double-edged sword when fragmented rest earlier in the evening often leads to another long night of difficulty sleeping afterward.

Throughout the day, ordinary tasks quietly continued despite emotional fatigue, medical frustrations, and dreary weather: soup simmered, cakes were completed, bulbs were replaced, laundry was washed, family checked in, and another day was carried forward one responsibility at a time.

May 15, 2026

Morning Reflection Summary

The day began early once again, though not entirely by choice. After falling asleep in the recliner around 9 PM, while watching television, sleep became fragmented through the night. Waking sometime around 3 AM, there was a strange sense of disorientation while wandering through the darkened house, exhausted physically, yet mentally unable to quiet the flood of thoughts that seem to arrive so easily during the lonely nighttime hours. After returning to the recliner around 3:30 AM, another brief stretch of sleep followed before finally getting up for the day around 5 AM.

Stepping to the patio doors at 5:41 AM revealed a remarkably clear predawn sky.

Temperatures hovered around 41° with not a cloud in sight and a forecast promising sunshine through much of the morning, before clouds were expected to arrive later in the day. The deep cobalt blue sky stretching above the dark silhouettes of the trees created a peaceful but haunting atmosphere, one of those moments suspended somewhere between night and morning.

What immediately stood out, however, was not the sky itself but the sound surrounding it. Upon opening the patio doors, the overwhelming chatter of birds filled the air from every direction, creating the sensation of standing inside an aviary. The birds seemed fully aware of the beauty and promise of the morning long before the sun itself had fully arrived.

Thoughts also drifted back to a phone call from my friend Bob the previous evening. Returning home from Latrobe while driving west along Route 30, toward Greensburg, he had called simply to describe an extraordinary sunset unfolding where he was. Ironically, at home there had been nothing visible but gray overcast clouds. Somewhere between the two locations, the cloud deck and moisture in the air had combined to create a brilliant light show that remained hidden from view farther west.

Yet the call itself carried meaning far beyond the sunset. Hearing Bob describe the sky with such excitement brought a genuine smile and quietly affirmed something important, that perhaps the countless conversations about sunrises, sunsets, skies, and fleeting moments of beauty had not gone unnoticed after all. Someone else had paused long enough to see the light and felt compelled to share it.

By 6:38 AM, the mood outdoors had already shifted dramatically.

The sun was quickly overtaking the remnants of night, illuminating the landscape while thin wisps of cloud began drifting overhead “just to make things interesting.” The early morning darkness and heaviness gave way to soft blues, glowing trees, and a sense of motion in the sky.

The changing conditions overhead seemed almost symbolic of life itself lately. never fully clear, never permanently storming, simply shifting from moment to moment while continuing forward nonetheless. The sunrise served once again as a reminder that light rarely arrives all at once. More often it returns gradually, in small increments, until eventually the darkness loses its hold.

Afternoon Reflection

Today unfolded as a day filled with companionship, generosity, creativity, and quiet reflection beneath the growing weight of Monday’s approaching surgery.

The morning and early afternoon were spent with Bob and his younger brother over lunch, where good food and even better conversation carried the day forward. After returning home, there was the familiar ritual of sharing food once again, slices of the almond raspberry torte, containers of soup, and zucchini stew prepared not only as nourishment but as gestures of friendship and care. Even Bob’s forgotten phone became a small moment of humor and neighborhood connection before he finally headed home.

The afternoon shifted into something more personal and creative as attention turned toward restoring an old childhood photograph for my son-in-law’s family. The process brought a mixture of satisfaction and frustration while adjusting print settings and trying to achieve the right result, but eventually the restoration came together successfully. Plans to deliver it were postponed after discovering the family was out of town, leaving the finished photograph waiting quietly for another day.

Throughout the day, reminders of Monday’s surgery lingered in the background. A phone call from the hospital with pre-op instructions made everything feel more immediate, even while trying to take it all in stride. Thankfully, Bob offered reassurance by agreeing to handle transportation to and from the hospital.

Family connections continued weaving through the evening as my son, from North Carolina, called to check in during his drive home from work, bringing another moment of concern, laughter, and love before saying goodnight.

As the day slowed, thoughts drifted toward tomorrow and the possibility of visiting a local auction house to look for affordable vegetable and garden plants after getting such a late start on seeds this season. The idea carried with it a sense of hopefulness and the familiar desire to keep creating and growing despite everything else pressing in.

The evening itself arrived gently. Time spent sitting outdoors beneath shifting clouds and lingering sunlight became a quiet pause before nightfall, a reminder that even uncertain days still contain moments worth holding onto. Yet beneath the calm remained the ongoing struggle with exhaustion, fragmented sleep, and a restless mind that refuses to fully settle.

Still, despite fatigue and worry, the day was ultimately defined not by fear, but by connection: sharing meals, restoring memories, caring for others, receiving support in return, and continuing to move forward one ordinary moment at a time.

May 16, 2026

The morning seems to have opened with a quiet little victory today, not dramatic, not loud, but meaningful all the same.

After so many nights spent drifting in and out of sleep in the recliner, simply making the decision to return to my bed carried emotional weight of its own. There’s something deeply human about that mixture of apprehension and hope I described at 2:15 AM this morning, almost as though I was re-entering a space that had slowly become unfamiliar after months of grief, exhaustion, and disrupted routines. Yet despite the hesitation, the night appears to have rewarded the effort. Not perfect sleep perhaps, but enough comfort and continuity to suggest that maybe, just maybe, another small piece of normalcy is trying to find its way back.

After stepping out onto to the deck at around 6:20 AM, to record today's sunrise:

I couldn't help but notice the sky felt calmer and more open, with the blue beginning to take control as the morning progressed. There’s a sense of clearing, both literally and emotionally. The brightness filtering through the spruce near the shed created almost a hidden sunrise effect, as if the day is revealing itself carefully rather than all at once.

Shortly therafter, at around 6:45 the image carries remarkable texture in the sky, those delicate ripples of clouds almost resembling brushstrokes spreading outward from the sunrise itself. It had the feel of a morning gradually waking rather than bursting awake.

The darker silhouettes of the spruce and vine-covered trees frame the light in a way that feels very familiar to my ongoing “portal” imagery: darkness holding its place while allowing light to enter anyway.

There’s a sense of clearing, both literally and emotionally. The brightness filtering through the spruce near the shed creates almost a hidden sunrise effect, as if the day is revealing itself carefully rather than all at once.

This morning also carried a gentle undercurrent of reconnecting with ordinary life:

• the coffee mishap that immediately demanded attention,

• stepping onto the deck into unexpectedly comfortable air,

• the quiet reassurance of hearing my daughter awake and organized early,

• plans to visit the nursery later this morning,

Those small domestic moments matter. They help anchor the day before grief has a chance to overtake it.

Sometimes progress arrives quietly. Not in grand accomplishments or dramatic moments, but in sleeping in your own bed again, waking to the smell of fresh coffee, standing beneath a soft blue morning sky, and realizing the day ahead no longer feels quite as heavy as the one before it.

Late Day Reflection

Today unfolded as a long and emotionally layered spring day centered around gardening, family, memory, and preparation for the days ahead.

The morning began with a trip to the “380 auction” plant nursery with my daughter, an outing that quickly turned into a full-scale gardening expedition. The place was absolutely packed with people, overflowing with vegetable plants, flowers, hanging baskets, and ferns at prices far lower than most traditional nurseries. The crowd was overwhelming, yet the atmosphere carried the unmistakable excitement and energy that accompanies spring planting season.

My full size Toyota Avalon sedan was eventually filled “like a rolling nursery,” so overloaded with plants that my daughter still had to hold one of the ferns on her lap, in the passenger seat, during the drive home.

The weather seemed uncertain throughout the day, alternating between sunshine, clouds, and periods where rain appeared imminent. Upon returning home around midday, I unloaded trays of flowers, vegetables, and ferns into the driveway with hopes of getting at least some planting completed before the end of the day.

After lunch, I changed clothes and headed outdoors to begin garden work. Much of the afternoon was spent reclaiming and reorganizing the garden area after a difficult year in which many small starter pots and gardening supplies had simply remained untouched. I emptied old pots, reclaimed soil, pulled weeds, and eventually moved the newly purchased plants into the small lean to greenhouse I had built years ago, along the south side of the house. The greenhouse once again has become a temporary shelter for young plants waiting to find permanent homes in the garden.

Just as preparations were beginning to shift toward actual planting, the weather intervened. What started as a light rain gradually intensified enough to force me indoors, ending the outdoor work for the day. After cleaning up and settling briefly into the recliner, fatigue finally caught up with me and I drifted into an unexpected hour-long nap.

Later in the afternoon, my daughter called asking whether I wanted her to pick up mulch for tomorrow, when she and my son-in-law planned to come help with planting todays purchases. My response reflected my greater concern, not mulch or appearances, but getting the plants safely into the ground before Monday’s surgery, knowing my ability to work outdoors will likely be limited during recovery. Despite getting excellent deals on the plants, I felt that it would feel “sinful” not to see them properly planted and thriving.

One of the bright surprises of the day came while walking through the garden itself. To my delight, the raised beds were already overflowing with healthy lettuce, much of it fully ready for harvest. The abundance waiting there unexpectedly provided a sense of reward and reassurance, along with the realization that plenty of salads will likely be shared with my daughter’s family during the coming week.

In addition to lettuce I could see tht the snap peas, planted a few weeks ago were also well on their way to providing an additon to several dinner dishes in the near future.

The most meaningful portion of the day centered around the begonias I purchased earlier that morning. Among the first plants selected were flats of red and white begonias, the exact flowers Fran always insisted be planted beneath the dogwood tree in the front yard.

That tree itself carries deep meaning, having originally been planted in memory of Fran’s younger brother who passed away at a very young age, and her mom who passed shortly after. Over the years, the flower bed beneath it became one of Fran’s cherished projects, and she was always very particular about how it should look: densely filled with flowers, never sparse or scattered.

I reflected on how, even several years ago, I continued planting that bed under Fran’s “direct supervision.” Buying those same red and white begonias today felt less like routine gardening and more like continuing a tradition she lovingly established.

I was confident that Fran would be pleased knowing those same flowers will once again fill the space beneath the dogwood tree this summer. By July/August, I'm fairly certain the area will once again become a beautiful display for everyone passing by.

Especially for Fran, knowing that somewhere, somehow, she will nod and smile her precious smile, with approval...I miss you so much Franny...

May 17, 2026

Today began with cautious optimism and ended with a deep sense of accomplishment.

The morning arrived under comfortable conditions with temperatures hovering around 61° and sunshine promising a nearly perfect spring day for gardening. After a somewhat restless night split between the bed and recliner, there was still enough rest and determination to begin working outdoors shortly after sunrise. What initially seemed like a hopeful attempt at getting a few things planted quickly evolved into one of the most productive days in the garden so far this season.

At around 9 AM, help arrived in the form of family. My daughter, son-in-law, and grandson joined in, transforming what could have been an overwhelming task into a shared effort filled with purpose and momentum. Together, through the course of the day, an enormous amount of work was accomplished.

Approximately a dozen tomato plants found their place in the soil along with nearly four dozen pepper plants, eight cucumber plants, eight zucchini plants, and more than one hundred onion sets.

In addition to planting, the entire garden underwent a much-needed cleanup. Walkways that had slowly disappeared beneath weeds and grass were reclaimed through hours of painstaking work pulling growth from cracks and crevices throughout the raised beds and pathways.

Beyond the vegetable garden itself, the property also received touches of color and care. Red and white begonias were planted around the base of the dogwood tree, flowers were added to the barrel near the front porch, and the mailbox flower box was refreshed as well.

Meanwhile, mygrandson tackled another long overdue task by trimming weeds throughout the property, something greatly appreciated and symbolic in its own quiet way, restoring order and care to spaces that had understandably fallen behind during such a difficult year.

The photographs captured throughout the day reflected more than gardening progress. They revealed renewal. The converted pool garden once again looked alive and active rather than dormant. Fresh rows of vegetables, carefully arranged flower beds, and clean pathways all stood as evidence that despite grief, exhaustion, medical concerns, and delayed beginnings, life and growth continue to move forward.

As evening arrived around 7 PM, exhaustion was certainly present, but so was relief. There was comfort in knowing that the first major phase of the garden had finally been completed before tomorrow morning’s hernia surgery. Though there remains understandable apprehension about the procedure and recovery ahead, there is also reassurance in knowing that things are in place, the garden is underway, and support from family and friends surrounds me. My friend Bob will accompany me to the hospital tomorrow, and my daughter stands ready to help afterward if needed.

Tonight carries the feeling of closure to an important chapter of spring preparation, not perfection, but meaningful progress accomplished with the help of those who care about me most.

May 18, 2026

Surgery Day Reflections

Today proved to be a long and eventful day, beginning before sunrise and ending with a house filled with care, food, family, and gratitude.

I was out of bed around 5:30 AM, slowly making my way through the house and getting dressed in comfortable clothes for the trip to the hospital. Bob arrived at my front door around 6:45 AM and got me there with plenty of time to spare before my scheduled 7:30 arrival.

Although everything began early, the actual surgery did not take place until around 9:30 AM. Afterward, I remained under sedation longer than expected and didn’t fully come around until approximately 1 PM. By 2 PM, however, I was already headed back home.

The hospital provided pain medication along with a three-day prescription and instructions to take it every six hours as needed. So far, the discomfort has thankfully been far less severe than I feared it might be, though I realize it is still early and recovery can change from hour to hour.

Around 4:30 PM, my daughter arrived and stayed with me through the evening, later returning home briefly to gather a few things she would need for the night. Not long afterward, my son-in-law arrived carrying what can only be described as a feast.

Dinner began with a salad made from greens grown in the garden earlier today, followed by homemade cream of broccoli soup prepared by his mother. Just when I thought the meal was complete, he returned with a second plate loaded with fried chicken breast, ribs, stuffing, asparagus wrapped in bacon, and asiago bread. Somehow, despite the long day, I managed to enjoy every bit of it, and still had leftovers waiting for tomorrow. To finish things off, he brought out peach pie for dessert.

One thing I quickly discovered this evening is that standing and moving about seems far more comfortable than sitting still. Finding a position to truly relax in may prove to be one of the bigger challenges of the night ahead.

Later in the evening, while sitting out on the porch with my daughter waiting for dinner to arrive, Neal happened to walk by. We talked for a while, and when I mentioned the abundance of lettuce growing in the garden, he gladly accepted some to take home.

As the evening winds down, it appears this household may settle into movie night territory, assuming I can stay awake long enough to enjoy it. My daughter, however, will probably have far better luck making it through the entire film than I will.

It has been a long day from beginning to end, but thanks to the kindness, generosity, and support of family and friends, the day passed with far fewer complications than I feared. Tonight, more than anything else, I’m simply grateful to have made it this far and hopeful that recovery continues along the same path.

May 19, 2026

Morning Reflection – 6:06 AM

It’s 6:06 AM on Wednesday morning, and talk about a restless night.

Between the discomfort of this catheter and the soreness from yesterday’s surgery, finding any comfortable position felt nearly impossible. Sleep came in fragments at best, with far too much tossing, shifting, and frustration in between.

Stepping outside this morning, the air is surprisingly warm already at 68°, and the horizon is offering a soft but intriguing orange glow, subtle for now, but slowly changing into something not yet fully revealed. Whether it becomes a proper sunrise display or simply fades into daylight remains to be seen.

The forecast calls for a warm day ahead, reaching 85°, mostly sunny, though clouds are expected to drift through from around 10 AM until 2 PM before sunshine takes back over.

For now, the morning sits somewhere between discomfort and quiet beauty, a restless body beneath a sky that seems far more settled than the night that came before it.

“Some mornings arrive softly, asking for nothing more than endurance and patience, a quiet sky above, while the body below tries simply to find its peace.”

May 20, 2026

A Rough Morning on the Deck

At 6:07 this morning, I made my way out to the deck, feeling caught between wanting to stand because it puts less pressure on the incision, and being far too tired to remain on my feet for long.

The simplest movements, sitting down, standing back up, turning in bed, even swinging my legs over the side this morning, have become ordeals I never imagined would hurt this much. I find myself moving cautiously, holding onto things, feeling decades older than I am, simply trying not to strain anything.

Last night I slept with an ice pack over the surgical area, and while it brought some relief, it was temporary. This morning it’s back in the freezer, and I’m already thinking I may need a few more so there’s always one ready.

I knew this surgery was going to bring discomfort. I prepared myself for that much. But what I didn’t prepare for was just how overwhelming even the smallest movements could become.

Out here on the deck, under a quiet morning sky,

I find myself hoping the doctors were right, that this intense part will begin to ease in another day or two, because right now, it feels almost unbearable.

5:00 PM — Signs of Improvement

By late afternoon, I’m relieved to say that things finally seem to be moving, however slowly, in a better direction.

After a very rough morning, I called the doctor’s office to let them know how much pain I was in.

They recommended a scheduled regimen of Tylenol and Motrin, alternating every two hours as needed, and for whatever reason, that combination seems to be working far better than the stronger medication the hospital had prescribed.

The pain is still there, and I’m still moving very cautiously, especially when sitting down or standing up, but for the first time today, it feels a bit more tolerable.

Most of the day was spent in the recliner, watching movies with my daughter while she caught up on laundry here rather than at home. She also made a run for me earlier in the day to pick up more Tylenol and Motrin, which turned out to be a wise move.

My friend Bob stopped by this afternoon with something unexpected and very thoughtful, a card from the folks at the Norwin Art League thanking me for the cake I had sent along for their Monday gathering, along with a smaller card where everyone in attendance had written a personal note wishing me well.

Considering I’ve only known many of them for a short time, their kindness meant more than they probably realize.

Bob also brought along a loaf of berry bread, which I suspect will make a fine evening snack and perhaps breakfast tomorrow morning.

My son-in-law, who had already been by earlier to water the garden and the flowers out front, returned again this evening with pizza for dinner.

Today has been painful, frustrating, and at times overwhelming, but as this day winds down, I can at least say that things seem to be easing ever so slightly. For now, that feels like enough to be grateful for.

May 21, 2026

Today unfolded beneath gray skies and lingering uncertainty, with the rain pausing for the moment but sunshine nowhere to be found. The cool damp air made a brief visit to the deck possible, bundled in a fleece jacket, if only to sit for a little while and breathe in some fresh air before retreating indoors.

After waking around 4 AM and finally getting up an hour later, the day began much the same as the past few since surgery, measured not by plans or accomplishments, but by comfort, discomfort, and simply getting through the hours as they come. There is some relief in knowing that today feels a bit better than the days immediately following surgery, even though pain and discomfort still remain.

A heartfelt reflection centered around gratitude for my daughter, who has stayed by my side since Monday, caring for me and making sure I'm comfortable. Her kindness and willingness to put her own routine on hold is deeply appreciated, even as it stirs that familiar parental instinct of not wanting to feel like a burden.

A memory surfaced of joking years ago that someday my children would “pay me back,” but now, in this season of life, the humor carries a softer truth, love given comes back in ways both comforting and humbling.

Thoughts drifted toward the future as well: hopes of returning to the garden before month’s end, getting more plants into the ground if recovery continues in the right direction, and tomorrow’s visit from a contractor to quote a new patio door, after the shock of a previous estimate that seemed almost laughably absurd, especially through the eyes of someone who spent much of their life around construction, and knows what such things entail.

For now, the day remains largely unplanned, surrendered to the unpredictability of recovery and the moment-to-moment reality of how the body feels. Perhaps another quiet sit on the deck, a chair pulled to the table, some fresh air, and simply letting the day be what it is. Beneath gray skies and lingering discomfort, there is still something to be thankful for: a slight improvement, caring family nearby, and the hope that better days, and garden days, may not be too far away.

Evening Reflection – 6:42 PM

By early evening I made my way back indoors after spending a brief stretch out on the deck, likely my last visit outside for the day, somewhere around a half hour or so just sitting quietly and taking in what little the evening had to offer.

Around 5 o’clock I warmed up some leftovers for dinner. My daughter had suggested going out to Subway for takeout, but I reminded her that there was already more than enough food in the refrigerator. Leftovers may not be exciting, but they were perfectly fine, and I’ve never been one to see good food go to waste. That’s always been one of my pet peeves.

After dinner I cleaned up the dishes and then spent a short while out on the deck, casually observing the gray skies overhead and wondering what the sun might have looked like on the other side of those clouds. There wasn’t much to see, but sometimes just being outside for a little while is enough.

When I came back inside, my daughter asked if I wanted her to stay again tonight. I left it to her discretion at first, but she was looking for a more definitive answer, one I really didn’t have. When she asked how I was feeling, I told her the truth: I have my good moments and my bad moments, but I can manage.

I’m deeply appreciative of the care and concern she and her family have shown these past few days. Her staying here has certainly been a comfort, but at the same time I wrestle with that uneasy feeling of being a burden, and that’s not a road I’ve ever been comfortable traveling.

After a short while, she told me she was going home to get a bath and would return later so we could once again settle in and watch a movie together. I felt blessed by her concern, even if part of me still struggles with accepting so much help.

After finishing this entry for today, I’ll probably make the short walk out to the mailbox and collect yesterday’s and today’s mail since I neglected to do so yesterday. Who knows what will be waiting there… though my guess is probably a few more bills.

Sometimes the day ends not with answers, but with quiet reminders of how much love still shows up, and even under gray skies and uncertain feelings, kindness has a way of finding its place at the table.

May 22, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections – 6:57 AM

After waking before 4 AM and spending nearly an hour trying unsuccessfully to drift back to sleep, I finally gave in and decided to start the day early. By around 5 AM, I opened the patio door only to find a sky filled with gray clouds, offering little hope of sunrise color or sunshine this morning. The temperature sits at 54°, with a high of only 64° expected, and rain forecast to arrive sometime around mid-afternoon and linger well into the night. At least the garden, from all indications, should be well cared for by nature over the next few days.

This morning carries an unusual amount of activity outdoors, no doubt because it is the last day of school in the district. Normally, this time of year signals the beginning of quieter days and peaceful mornings, a little slice of heaven with coffee at the table and only birds and breeze for company. But this year may be different. With stadium renovations underway behind the house, construction vehicles and work crews will likely replace some of that peace with noise and commotion. The stillness I’ve come to treasure may be in short supply.

Later this morning, another contractor is expected to stop by and provide an estimate for replacing the patio door that has stood faithfully in place for more than 30 years. The first estimate was, quite frankly, absurd, so high it seemed more fitting for a new car than a patio door. I’m hoping today’s visit brings a little more common sense.

My neighbor Bob cut the grass again yesterday, and though I wanted to go outside to thank him and talk for a bit, I simply wasn’t up to it. The swelling and discomfort from surgery made even that feel like too much. Everyone keeps assuring me that this level of pain and discomfort is normal and that healing simply takes time, but patience can wear thin when all you want is to feel useful again and get back to doing honest work.

My daughter was up shortly after I was this morning, and I encouraged her to go back to bed, reminding her there was no reason for her to be awake so early on my account. For a little while, though, we sat together in the quiet, talking about nothing particularly important, just the simple questions of the morning: How are you feeling? Are you in pain? What do you want to watch on television?  Eventually, I convinced her to get some more rest, reassuring her that if she heard voices later in the morning, it would simply be me speaking with the man here to estimate the new patio door.

Sometimes mornings arrive with sunshine and promise. Other times they arrive gray and uncertain, asking only for patience and the willingness to move through them one hour at a time.

Even beneath a sky stitched with clouds, light still found a way to break through. No fiery sunrise this morning, only a sky heavy with thought, holding its light in reserve.

Gray may have claimed the morning, but the sky still whispered in texture, shadow, and fragments of blue, and the portal doorway did not open in sunlight , but above it the heavens still stirred with quiet motion and hidden light.

The heavy textured cloud cover almost looks quilted or sculpted, with patches of blue breaking through just enough to keep it from feeling completely closed in. There on the right, that familiar tall locust silhouette stands like a figure against the light, almost guardian-like, while the darker tree line below anchors the whole scene. There’s a quiet drama in this one: not sunrise brilliance, but a kind of brooding morning beauty, as if the sky couldn’t quite decide whether to open up or hold onto the gray.

Afternoon Reflections – 2:19 PM

It’s now mid-afternoon, and I’ve just put a pie shell into the oven in preparation for making a strawberry pie later on. For the moment, I made my way back out to the deck and settled in at the table, taking in what little outdoor time the weather would allow. The clouds have been steadily thickening overhead, and raindrops have begun to fall here and there, so I suspect my stay outside will be a brief one.

The representative from the window company arrived around 11 o’clock this morning and stayed until about 12:30, going over options and providing a quote on patio doors similar to those I had priced previously. To my surprise, his estimate came in considerably lower than the first one, though still higher than I’d hoped. I suppose that’s simply the reality of things these days.

Funny how moments like that stir old memories. I found myself thinking back to my father, who would often question why I was spending so much money on something, and I’d remind him that times change and things cost more than they once did. Now, it seems the roles have reversed, and here I am playing his part. looking at today’s prices and comparing them to what they used to be, feeling more than a little uneasy in the process.

My daughter made a quick trip home to let the dogs out and returned with a couple of chocolate milkshakes, a surprise I certainly wasn’t expecting, but one that was very much appreciated and enjoyed.

For now, though, I suppose I’d better head back inside and check on that pie crust before the weather, or the oven, decides to get the better of me.

Even on gray afternoons filled with rising costs and passing showers, life still manages to sneak in small sweetness, sometimes in the form of a chocolate milkshake and a strawberry pie in the making.

May 23, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

Saturday began slowly, with an uneasy heart and a restless mind. After waking around 6:45 AM, the morning offered little comfort, gray skies, mist in the air, a chill that seemed to settle not only outdoors but deep within. Coffee at the patio doors, usually a small ritual of solace, did little to quiet the flood of memories and emotions that came rushing in.

The house felt noticeably different this morning. After a week of my daughter’s comforting presence while I recovered, the quiet felt heavier than usual, once she returned home the night before.

Though grateful beyond words for her care and companionship, there lingered that familiar discomfort of feeling like a burden, a thought I know all too well from years spent caring for others myself.

Loneliness, more than anything, seemed to take center stage. Since Fran’s passing, it is often the silence that weighs the most, not simply being alone, but feeling the emptiness of someone who once filled the ordinary spaces of life with presence and meaning.

Sometime in the early morning hours, after waking in the recliner and noticing dinner dishes still in the sink, something almost unheard of after decades of habit, exhaustion won out over routine. Even that small task felt beyond reach, a quiet reminder of just how drained I truly felt.

Later, with morning light filtering through gray skies and thoughts swirling about healing, recovery, and what “normal” might ever look like again, I eventually found the strength to clean up, prepare another pot of coffee, and tend to the little things.

But the bigger question lingered:

What to do with the rest of a rainy day when the garden calls but the weather says no, and the heart struggles to find its footing?

So I sat, gazing through the living room toward the patio doors and out to the deck, wondering what to make of this quiet, damp morning, and hoping, somehow, to find something constructive, something worthwhile, in the hours ahead.

Even on mornings when the clouds refuse to lift, love still lingers in the quiet places, reminding me that emptiness is only the space where something beautiful once lived.

Perhaps some days are not meant to be conquered, only endured with grace until a bit of light finds its way back in. Rain may have kept me from the garden this morning, but perhaps the real tending today is the quieter work of caring for a weary heart.

Evening Reflection — 9:22 PM

By 9:22 this evening, I had finally managed to get myself in and out of the shower, something I had been putting off for much of the day. Truth be told, it felt good to freshen up, and for at least a little while, it helped shake off some of the sluggishness that had settled over me.

Afterward, I spent a bit of time in the kitchen doing some light cleaning and straightening up, small tasks perhaps, but sometimes even the simplest routines help restore a sense of order when the day has felt a bit adrift.

Just as I was getting out of the shower, my daughter called, and I returned her call shortly thereafter. As always, she was checking in, making sure all was well. Her concern is thoughtful and loving, and though I often tell her not to worry quite so much, I know it comes from a place of care, and for that I am grateful.

Earlier in the evening, at around 7 o’clock, my friend Bob called to ask if I planned on being home tomorrow around noon because he wanted to stop by and drop something off for me.

I reassured him that I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon, so there was little chance of missing me. It was kind of him to think of me, and as always, his friendship continues to be one of those quiet blessings that never goes unnoticed.

During the course of our conversation, Bob mentioned that he had purchased a new truck, something he had apparently been considering for quite some time. He explained that his current one was beginning to show signs of drivetrain wear, and he wanted to unload it before those issues turned into something much bigger and more costly.

We talked for about fifteen minutes or so, covering a bit of this and that before eventually saying our goodbyes.

It never ceases to amaze me what a loyal and genuinely good friend he is, calling almost every day, and at the very least every other day, simply to check in and see how I’m doing. Unfortunately, there just aren’t too many folks in this world like that anymore. I know how fortunate I am, and truthfully, I am deeply grateful to have such a wonderful friend in my life.

During the course of my conversation with my daughter, she made a comment that, even though I was already quite aware of it, still left me somewhat speechless.

She said that she often thinks of me as she does of her child, constantly worrying and wondering, but then also as her Dad, the one who always seemed capable of handling things, solving problems, and somehow holding it all together, but now she sees moments when the signals seem harder to connect, when the struggles are there, even if I try not to show them.

I’m not entirely certain what struck me more, the truth in what she said, or the realization that our children sometimes see things in us that we ourselves are reluctant to fully acknowledge.

Perhaps that is part of life’s strange turning of the tables… when those who once leaned on us begin, in their own quiet way, trying to hold us up.

That thought left me somewhat speechless… and perhaps a little emotional as well.

Since then, the evening has unfolded quietly, the day winding itself down in its usual unhurried fashion. Nothing particularly eventful, just the familiar rhythms of home, a bit of cleaning, a few phone calls from people who care, and the quiet comfort of knowing that:

even on slower, uneventful days, life still offers small reminders that we are not entirely alone.

May 24, 2026

Sunday Morning Reflections

Sunday began early, with me waking at around 4:45 AM after another restless night, interrupted by discomfort from lingering swelling related to my hernia surgery and the ongoing nuisance of the catheter. Sleep has been hard to come by lately, with nights broken by discomfort and days punctuated by brief moments of nodding off, leaving me feeling worn down and frustrated.

At around 7 AM, my daughter called to check in. We spoke briefly about the possibility of going out to dinner later today, something I had mentioned the evening before depending on how I was feeling. Since her and my son-in-law’s availability is still uncertain, I told her I’d wait to think much more about it until I knew whether the plans were actually coming together. Adding to the mix is my son-in-law’s recent need to begin following a gluten-free diet, which may narrow our restaurant choices, though I do have a few gift cards I’d like to put to use if possible.

Weather, discomfort, uncertainty, they all have a way of reminding us that life seldom waits for ideal conditions.

Outside, the morning offered little encouragement. The porch was still wet from overnight rain, and a few raindrops continued to fall beneath a thick blanket of gray skies. At 7:29 AM, the temperature sat at 58 degrees, with a forecast calling for a high of 74 and a near certainty of rain throughout the day.

Not exactly the sort of morning that inspires much enthusiasm or activity, but as always, life moves forward, no matter what the weather may be.

Some mornings offer sunshine, others only gray skies, but both ask us to keep moving forward. Even on mornings like this, I can’t help but wonder how different the gray might feel if Fran were still here to share it.

Afternoon Reflections

This afternoon brought a welcome break in the weather and a chance to spend some time out on the deck enjoying what little sunshine managed to break through before the forecasted rain. My friend Bob and his wife stopped by around noon on their way to visit family, kindly dropping off some food for me, yet another reminder of how fortunate I am to have such generous and caring people in my life.

The day itself was fairly quiet. Aside from making the bed, enjoying several cups of coffee, and spending a good portion of the morning in front of the television, some of it with my eyes closed, I hadn’t accomplished much. Sitting in one place for too long continues to be uncomfortable, so getting outdoors for some fresh air felt like a welcome change.

Fran’s cousin Joe and her husband Earl also reached out this afternoon. I missed their call because my phone was charging in another room, but I returned their kindness with a text update. Considering their own health struggles over the past couple of years, the fact that they still take the time to check in on me means a great deal.

Out on the deck, I found myself enjoying the warm breeze, a refreshing drink, and a little jazz playing in the background while keeping an eye on a sky that seemed to be clearing, despite a forecast calling for rain later in the day. Deer wandered through the yard, squirrels darted about with their usual comic energy, and birds busily tended nests in the pine tree behind the house, plenty of simple entertainment unfolding right outside my back door.

During these quiet moments, my thoughts drifted toward the possibility of teaching a photography class for the Norwin Art League, perhaps one geared toward helping people make better use of the surprisingly sophisticated cameras they carry every day in their cell phones. The idea of focusing more on the art of seeing rather than the mechanics of equipment is becoming increasingly appealing, and I find myself giving more thought to what such a class, and perhaps even a small guidebook or course packet, might look like. Sometimes a quiet afternoon outdoors gives more than sunshine; it also leaves room for ideas to grow.

Evening Reflections – The Price of Everyday Living

By early evening, I found myself back home after making a quick trip to the market, though as so often happens, what was meant to be a simple stop for just a few basics turned into something more. My daughter had already picked up a few things for me earlier in the day, but once I started looking around the house, I realized there were still a couple of odds and ends I needed—nothing major, just tomatoes and bananas, or so I thought.

Of course, once I got to the store, the story changed. A few sale items here, a bargain there, and before long I was walking out nearly fifty dollars lighter. It made me stop and think about how much times have changed. For most of my life, I was never one to chase sales, clip coupons, or get pulled in by “buy one, get one free” deals. But with prices these days climbing to what seems like ridiculous heights, I have to admit, I’ll gladly jump on a bargain whenever I can find one.

Back at home, my thoughts shifted once again to the patio doors that need replacing. I made a couple of phone calls this afternoon, one to the gentleman who had stopped by on Friday to ask whether the style of doors I had in mind might actually be available at their showroom so I could see them in person, rather than just looking at brochures and pictures.

The other call was to an old friend and former colleague from my teaching days at the vocational school, a really good guy who worked alongside me for years. Retirement has a way of scattering people in different directions, and though we haven’t kept in touch as often as I would have liked, his name came to mind after looking at some of the recent estimates and product pricing. Since I know he still does work on the side, I thought perhaps he might be interested in taking a look and giving me another opinion.

As luck would have it, he messaged me back saying he was in Toronto and wouldn’t be home until next week, but promised to call and come by once he returns. I have a feeling he might cut me a little break, though before any decisions are made, I’ll probably do a bit more shopping around at some of the big box stores, compare what’s available, and perhaps just have him handle the installation.

Funny how an ordinary trip for tomatoes and bananas somehow turns into thoughts about bargains, rising prices, old friendships, and the never-ending list of projects that seem to follow us through life. Some days unfold that way, small errands on the surface, but underneath, reminders that time changes everything, including the way we look at what once seemed simple.

May 25, 2026

May 25 unfolded as a day of unexpected transition, beginning with uncertainty, loneliness, and gray skies, but gradually giving way to warmth, sunshine, quiet observations, and the comforting possibility of sharing the evening with family.

The morning began slowly, with moments spent gazing toward the horizon hoping for something magical to appear in the sky. When that spectacle never quite materialized, attention shifted to the simple beauty much closer at hand,

Droplets of water clung to the deck table and to the black plastic cover shielding the patio chairs, creating textures, reflections, and tiny abstract landscapes born of mist and light

Instead, it settled softly onto the ordinary.

What first appeared to be nothing more than moisture on commonplace surfaces:

became something unexpectedly beautiful under close observation...

For a brief while, the ordinary stopped being ordinary.

I could have spent much more time studying those tiny details, and perhaps the fact that I even wanted to was the true gift of the morning, a quiet invitation to find wonder in places I never expected to look.

Later in the morning, after photographing squirrels darting through the yard with an old Nikon camera, a late breakfast of French toast made with a favorite loaf of Artesano bread became both satisfying and bittersweet. Jazz playing softly in the background, hot coffee in hand, and the familiar comfort of cooking gave way to thoughts of Fran, memories of shared routines, quiet humor, and the ache of wishing she were still here to enjoy the little culinary triumphs that have become part of daily life.

Morning Brew & Reflections – 8:57 AM

It’s 8:57 AM, and I just finished a rather late breakfast consisting of a couple of pieces of French toast made with a supermarket bread I’ve been fond of for years, Artesano. For an off-the-shelf loaf, the stuff is downright amazing no matter how you use it.

Earlier this morning, after taking several photographs of squirrels darting about the yard with my old Nikon 35 mm DSLR, which happened to be nearby when I noticed them, I suddenly realized I could certainly use a bite to eat.

My daughter had picked up the bread for me yesterday, and when she opened the bag upon delivering it, it brought a smile to my face because she remembered just how much I liked this particular brand. We both got a laugh recalling how Fran would always say, “Both of you are out of your minds for spending that much money on bread,” but truth be told, this particular loaf is downright delicious.

The slices themselves are about one and a half times the size and thickness of ordinary store-bought bread, which to me is a definite plus. I dredged them thoroughly in a mixture of egg, heavy cream, and a touch of baking powder dissolved in warm water, then gently nestled them into a frying pan on very low heat, letting them slowly caramelize in melted butter.

Normally I would add cinnamon, nutmeg, pumpkin spice, or some sort of warm spice blend to the egg mixture, but in the moment I forgot. So instead, I dusted the bread lightly once it was already in the pan, and it turned out just fine — especially drizzled with real maple syrup, not the imitation grocery store stuff, but the real deal.

It made for a late breakfast, but a very satisfying one, especially with a hot cup of coffee alongside it.

In between moments of cooking, glancing outdoors to see what was happening and listening to jazz quietly playing in the background, that familiar loneliness once again began to creep in.

Fran was never a big breakfast eater. She would have it occasionally, but never wanted to make a fuss over it. I, on the other hand, could probably make breakfast my main meal of the day.

And then the thoughts came, as they so often do.

Since Fran’s passing, I’ve somehow managed to perfect quite a few cooking techniques and put interesting little twists on relatively simple foods, and I find myself wishing more than anything that she were here to enjoy them with me.

That’s the part that catches me.

A simple breakfast becomes a memory. A memory becomes a longing. Before I know it, I’m standing in the middle of my kitchen feeling the weight of what should have been… what could have been… the celebration of a life we earned together but never got the chance to finish in the way I imagined.

Grief has a way of doing that. It sneaks into ordinary moments, pulls up a chair at the table, and reminds me that even something as simple as French toast and coffee can still carry the ache of love.

But perhaps that ache is there because love is still there too — quietly, faithfully, sitting beside me in the places where Fran once was.

By early afternoon, the day took a dramatic turn for the better. Gray skies gave way to brilliant sunshine, blue skies, warm temperatures, and a welcome sense of optimism. The deck, now bathed in sunlight, became the setting for hopes of a simple Memorial Day porch picnic with family, grilled hot dogs, hand-cut fries, baked beans, fresh corn on the cob, and the quiet pleasure of outdoor dining without fuss or extravagance.

By early afternoon, the day took a dramatic turn for the better...

As the sun moved westward and the deck slowly cooled into evening comfort, the day seemed to offer something it had withheld earlier: a reminder that sometimes joy doesn’t arrive all at once in grand moments, but instead reveals itself little by little, in droplets of mist, warm French toast, a break in the clouds, family plans, and the quiet grace of a day that unexpectedly turned for the better.

Afternoon Turnaround – 2:06 PM

It’s now 2:06 PM, and after moving from the recliner in the living room upon noticing a much brighter sky through the dining room windows, it appears that today has definitely taken a turn for the better.

The outdoor temperature is sitting at 74°, there’s barely a hint of a breeze, and the sun has reached a point in the sky where it shines almost completely unobstructed by clouds. I n fact, it became bright enough that I had to raise the umbrella over the deck table to provide a bit of relief from the direct sunlight warming just about everything in sight.

I must admit, I had nowhere near expectations of reaching this point today, but I’m certainly ecstatic that we did.

After speaking with my daughter earlier this morning and again a couple of hours ago, I suggested that she and her husband come over for dinner, or perhaps more accurately, a little light outdoor dining, a picnic on the porch if you wil, to commemorate this Memorial Day holiday.

Nothing extravagant… just a few jumbo hot dogs on the grill, some hand-cut better-dipped French fries, baked beans, and fresh corn on the cob I picked up yesterday at the market.

Simple food. Good company. Sunshine. Sometimes that’s more than enough.

If the weather continues to cooperate, it should only get better.

As the sun slowly moves westward toward the front of the house, the deck, facing east, will begin cooling off as the direct sunlight fades, hopefully setting the stage for a very comfortable evening outdoors.

For now, all I can do is hope the weather continues to play along… because at this moment, it’s absolutely gorgeous.

May 26, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections — Watching the Day Arrive

At 6:18 on this Tuesday morning, I already found myself sitting at the table on the deck just outside the dining room and kitchen, coffee in hand, facing due east and waiting for the day to unfold.

The morning air was cool enough to remind me that spring still has a bit of say in things, 58 degrees, comfortable in a T-shirt at first, but only for a little while before I made a quick trip inside for a light fleece sweatshirt to make things a bit more comfortable.

The forecast says 79 degrees later today, with partly cloudy skies early before more clouds move in as the morning progresses. Not exactly the kind of sky I had hoped for, but for now, things seem to be shaping up better than expected. The clouds appear to be breaking in places, and though the sun is still hidden from my current view, its presence is obvious just above the horizon, quietly brightening the eastern sky.

Last night was a simple but enjoyable evening. My daughter and son-in-law came over for dinner, and we shared a casual meal, jumbo-sized hot dogs, batter dipped French fries, baked beans, and fresh corn roasted on the grill. Nothing fancy, just good food and good company.

After dinner, my son-in-law made his way down to the garden, watering the plants there before moving on to the small greenhouse beside the house, then to the flowers near the dogwood tree and even the blooms around the mailbox post.

Little acts of care like that don’t go unnoticed.

They headed home around 7 PM, and after cleaning up the kitchen, I settled into the recliner to catch up on a Netflix series I’ve been watching for the past week. Apparently, I must have fallen asleep rather quickly because I didn’t wake and make my way to bed until around 1 AM. Once there, I managed something that has been in short supply lately, three to four hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I woke around 5 AM but stayed in bed until about 5:45 before getting up, heading straight to the kitchen to start the coffee and take care of the usual morning necessities.

At dinner last night, I asked my daughter and son-in-law if they might want to join me today to look for a few more garden plants and flowers, and perhaps make a stop at a showroom so I can finally get a firsthand look at the patio doors I was quoted on last Friday.

For now, though, none of that matters just yet.

For now, I will simply sit here with my second cup of coffee, facing east, watching the world wake up as the sun slowly climbs above the horizon, gently adding color to the sky and reminding me once again that each day begins quietly… one small moment at a time.

And on mornings like this, when the sky slowly finds its light, I can’t help but wonder if somewhere beyond that horizon, love still rises too.

Morning Update — 6:45 AM

And just like that, the morning seemed to change its mind.

What began as a sky wrapped in uncertainty slowly opened itself to light. The clouds that earlier hovered thick and gray began to separate, revealing patches of soft blue, while streaks of white crossed overhead like brush marks on a canvas.

The sun, still low in the east, began quietly asserting itself, brightening the horizon and casting a gentle glow across the treetops and open field below.

It never ceases to amaze me how quickly a morning can turn, how what first appears gloomy and uncertain can, with just a little patience, become something entirely different.

Perhaps there’s a lesson in that.

So for now, with coffee cup in hand and the world waking before me, I’ll simply sit still and watch… grateful for another reminder that light has a way of finding its opening.

At 6:37 this morning, just a minute or two ago, something caught my eye off to the left.

Turning my gaze, I quickly recognized one of my many early morning visitors making his way across the yard. As always, those moments happen quickly, leaving little time to think.

With my phone close by, I reached for it, trying to anticipate where she might be heading, what direction she might turn, and how quickly I would need to react in order to catch a photograph.

Of course, in typical fashion, my camera was set to viewing photos rather than actually taking them.

A quick scramble to correct things, a bit of fumbling in the process, and just barely… I managed to catch my morning friend before she disappeared into the woods in the distance.

It always amazes me how these quiet visitors seem to arrive unannounced, offering only a brief moment before vanishing once again into the shelter of the trees, as if simply stopping by to remind me that I am not the only one greeting the morning.

Unexpected Visitor at Dusk

Last evening, after cleaning up a bit and before moving to the recliner in the living room, I made my way out onto the deck and sat at the table, quietly taking in the landscape that surrounded me.

As I scanned the field in the fading light, something moving across the grass caught my attention. At first, I had no idea what it was. It almost seemed like a piece of white paper being gently pushed along by the light breeze that was blowing.

But as I watched more closely, I could tell it definitely wasn’t paper.

Earlier in the evening, I had noticed a couple of groundhogs, so for a moment I wondered if perhaps one of them was nudging or dragging something light colored across the field. Still, the light was fading quickly, and there simply wasn’t enough of it for me to make a clear determination.

As the mysterious figure moved a little closer, I suddenly realized it was not what I had expected at all.

At that point, I quickly moved into the dining room and grabbed my 35 mm DSLR fitted with a 300 mm telephoto lens, hoping against hope that I might get a photograph, though I already knew the odds were not in my favor. The light was simply too poor, and with the lens wide open at f/3.5, I suspected I would be pushing my luck.

As it turned out, I didn’t get a particularly good shot, but I got enough of a look to recognize my unexpected visitor, a fairly large adult skunk, the white “paper” I had first noticed being the broad stripe running down his back as he made his way across the field.

I continued to watch, thinking he might eventually cross the road, but after 10 or 15 minutes, I came to realize he apparently had other plans. Where he ultimately ended up, I have no idea.

One thing I do know… I certainly hope it isn’t in my direction anytime soon, or ever, for that matter.

As each day passes I'm becoming more and more aware that my backyard really does have its own unique and diverse cast of characters. 🦨🌙

Morning Brew & Reflections — Deer at Daybreak

By 7:30 AM, the morning had already offered yet another quiet gift.

As I continued my watch from the patio doors and out across the yard, quite a few more of my deer friends made their way through, pausing only briefly as if to say hello before continuing on with their daily travels. There’s something about seeing them move so gently and naturally across the landscape that never seems to grow old.

My daughter called around 7:00 AM, and no sooner had I answered the phone than I caught sight of another deer out of the corner of my eye. Naturally, conversation quickly became secondary as I reached for the camera and began trying to capture a few photographs while still attempting to listen and respond.

Apparently, I wasn’t doing a very good job of multitasking.

After a few moments she finally laughed and said, “OK, enough, enough, you’re not talking, you’re taking pictures. I’ll talk to you later,” and with that, she hung up while I continued my impromptu wildlife photography session.

During the brief portion of the conversation that actually was conversation, she asked if I still wanted to go to the nursery later today to look for plants. I told her, “Probably so,” and she said she’d plan on picking me up around noon.

So, for now, it appears that if all goes according to plan, and of course plans always remain subject to change, this afternoon may involve a little plant hunting.

Not a bad way to spend a spring day.

“Before the day had fully found its footing, the deer passed quietly through, my daughter laughed at my divided attention, and somewhere between wildlife and conversation, the promise of an afternoon adventure began to take shape.”

Morning Brew & Reflections — Afternoon Excursion

It’s now 4:12 PM and I’ve just returned home after spending the better part of the afternoon out with my daughter and son-in-law.

As planned, we headed out shortly after noon to get a firsthand look at the patio door I was recently quoted a price on and then made our way to the Route 380 auction in search of additional garden plants, herbs, and flowers. Between the traveling, browsing, loading plants, and stopping for lunch along the way, we were gone for close to four hours, with probably an hour of that time spent relaxing over a meal together.

Upon returning home, my daughter and son-in-law helped unload the plants before heading back to their house, leaving me once again with a quiet backyard, a growing collection of flowers and herbs waiting to find their place, and a body that is currently reminding me I’m still recovering from surgery.

At the moment, I’m sitting out on the deck trying to soak in a few peaceful minutes before retreating indoors. The temperature is hovering around 79°, accompanied by an intermittent 8 to 9 mile-an-hour breeze that makes the otherwise warm afternoon surprisingly comfortable. Overhead, the sky remains mostly cloudy, yet bright enough to cast that soft late-afternoon glow across the yard.

Truthfully, I’m fairly exhausted.

There’s a very good chance that after a few more moments sitting here at the table, I’ll make my way back to the recliner for a nap, provided, of course, I don’t simply fall asleep right here on the deck first.

“Some days don’t demand anything extraordinary to feel complete, a drive through the countryside, lunch with family, a few new plants for the garden, and a quiet breeze at day’s end can sometimes be more than enough.”

Morning Brew & Reflections — Watching the Sky

It’s now 4:22 PM and I remain seated at the table on the deck at the rear of the house, continuing my afternoon watch over the landscape and the ever-changing sky above it.

As the minutes pass, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that the clouds are thickening. Layer upon layer of darkened formations continue drifting overhead, creating the kind of atmosphere that seems almost suspended somewhere between calm and storm. Even though there’s currently no rain in the forecast, experience has taught me not to place too much confidence in what forecasts claim.

I’ve traveled this road before

.

There have been many days when skies like these quietly gathered strength until the first raindrops eventually began to fall, almost as if the heavens had made up their mind at the very last moment. Standing here now, I can’t help but feel as though conditions are certainly ripening for rain at just about any time.

Of course, only time will tell what ultimately happens.

For now, the breeze continues to move through the trees, the clouds continue their slow procession overhead, and I remain here watching, waiting to see what the evening decides to become.

“Some skies seem to carry uncertainty the same way people do — holding everything inside until eventually they either clear… or let go.”

May 27, 2026

Morning Rain Reflections

It’s 6:12 AM on Wednesday morning, May 27, and once again I find myself standing at the patio doors, gazing outward into a wall of grey clouds while a light rain steadily falls across the landscape beyond the deck. Forecasts say the rain is expected to increase within the next hour and linger through around noon, and already I can hear the growing intensity of the drops striking the deck rails, table, and rooftop with that unmistakable sound only a rainy morning can create.

There is something about mornings like this that seem capable of reaching deep into the emotional corners of the soul. As the rain intensified outdoors, so too did the heaviness within me. A few tears quietly found their way down my face this morning, mingling almost symbolically with the raindrops falling beyond the glass.

It still seems somewhat strange to me how profoundly the weather can affect my emotional state. I can’t honestly say I was ever especially fond of rainy days. Occasionally they served a purpose, setting a mood when such a mood was welcome, but overall, sunshine and warmth always seemed more inviting to me.

Since Fran’s passing, however, mornings like this often guide my thoughts down roads I would rather avoid.

I do my best to remind myself that rain is necessary. Without it, nothing grows. Every living thing depends upon it in one way or another. Even if it isn’t something I personally long for, it remains one of nature’s essential gifts.

Still, I can’t help but think how wonderful it would be if rain only fell while we were sleeping

There is something deeply comforting about hearing raindrops on the roof at night while drifting off to sleep, almost like nature’s lullaby softly playing in the darkness.

Fran loved rainy nights for exactly that reason.

She also loved thunderstorms, the distant rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning illuminating the sky. I must admit, there has always been something intriguing and powerful about that to me as well, though overall I could generally do without the storms themselves.

As of now, I really haven’t given much thought to what today will bring. No plans have formed yet, but with conditions the way they are, I suspect whatever occupies my day will likely take place indoors.

By 6:41 AM, I opened the patio doors completely and was greeted by surprisingly comfortable air drifting into the dining room. The temperature currently sits at 66 degrees, with today’s high expected to reach around 75 sometime between 3 and 5 PM.

Yet even with the mild air, the rain continues to increase in intensity…

…and with it, so do the thoughts moving quietly through my mind this morning.

By 6:53 AM, the rain outdoors continued steadily falling while I found myself searching for some way to salvage the remainder of the day and redirect my thoughts toward something more productive and comforting.

At the moment, I’m thinking the answer may very well be sitting downstairs in the refrigerator, in the form of a few bags of apples waiting patiently to be transformed into one or perhaps two apple pies. (Maybe more)

Oddly enough, the mere thought of baking already seems to be shifting my mindset ever so slightly.

There has always been something therapeutic about working with dough, peeling apples, blending cinnamon and sugar, and filling the house with the aroma of something warm emerging from the oven. On mornings when emotions seem especially difficult to manage, baking often becomes less about food and more about purpose, a simple but meaningful way to push back against the heaviness of the day.

Part of my motivation, I suspect, comes from the fact that I still have an empty casserole dish sitting here that Bob and his wife brought with food for me last weekend. Returning an empty dish somehow never feels quite right. It almost demands being sent back filled with something homemade in return.

In this particular case, that “something” is beginning to resemble what could best be described as a touch of apple pie comfort food.

Not necessarily in the traditional pie plate form, either.

Truth be told, I’m fairly certain a low-profile casserole dish will prove more than adequate for the task at hand. In many ways, those slightly unconventional baked creations often feel even more personal, less about presentation and more about sharing warmth, appreciation, and gratitude.

And perhaps that’s exactly what this rainy morning really needs.

It’s now 12:12 PM and the first of the apple concoctions, somewhere between a Dutch apple pie and a casserole-style comfort dessert, has officially emerged from the oven.

From all outward indications, it appears to have baked for the proper amount of time. The crust has taken on a gentle golden color, the filling is bubbling softly around the edges, and the crumb topping with oats and walnuts looks beautifully textured and rich. Of course, the true determination will come later with the taste test.

That responsibility, however, will belong to my friend Bob and his wife rather than me.

Hopefully everything unfolded according to plan.

The second, more traditional Dutch apple pie will shortly be making its way into the oven once I raise the temperature back to 400 degrees again.

Judging from the remaining dough, apples, and crumb topping still sitting on the counter, I actually believe there may be enough left to create a smaller personal pie as well.

Truthfully, I’m leaning strongly toward doing exactly that and bringing it over to my sister-in-law.

What began earlier this morning as an attempt to redirect my thoughts away from grief somehow evolved into a full-scale baking session, one that filled the kitchen with warmth, cinnamon, brown sugar, butter, and memories.

Perhaps that’s part of what baking has always done for me.

It doesn’t erase sadness. But it gives sorrow something useful to do with its hands.

Looking at the finished pies sitting there cooling on the stove, with their bubbling fillings and crumb toppings sparkling slightly beneath the kitchen light, I can’t help but think Fran would probably have smiled at the sight of it, perhaps offering a suggestion or two, maybe teasing me about overfilling the crust, or reminding me not to cut into it too soon before it properly sets.

And somehow, even in her absence, moments like this still feel shared.

What started simply as an attempt to stay occupied slowly transformed into something far more therapeutic. Dough was mixed and chilled:

while apples were peeled, sliced, and blended with granulated sugar, brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and flour:

Crumb topping was prepared and later combined with chopped walnuts and oatmeal while the oven patiently preheated in the background.

Somewhere during the process, without me even realizing it, the rain stopped.

By mid morning, although heavy clouds still lingered overhead, signs of brighter conditions slowly began emerging both outside and within myself. The act of baking, rolling dough, preparing fillings, organizing ingredients, and filling the kitchen with warmth and familiar aromas, quietly pushed the sadness into the background for a while.

Then, just after placing the first apple pie casserole into the oven, the smooth jazz station unexpectedly queued up Herb Alpert’s I’ll Remember You.

At nearly the same moment, I had pulled out Fran’s handwritten pastry and pie recipe card from the old recipe box she once kept so carefully organized.

That combination nearly brought me to an emotional collapse.

Seeing her handwriting on that worn recipe card felt less like reading instructions and more like briefly touching a moment in time when she once stood in that same kitchen preparing food for people she loved.

It struck me how often I attempt to redirect my thoughts, only to discover that nearly everything meaningful eventually circles back to Fran, in one way or another.

Perhaps that is simply what happens after building a lifetime together.

Meanwhile, preparations continued for a second, more traditional Dutch apple pie while enough ingredients appeared to remain for a smaller personal pie, one I will bring to my sister-in-law.

As the day unfolded, what began as a dark and emotionally difficult rainy morning slowly transformed into one centered around warmth, memory, comfort food, music, and reflection.

And perhaps that is the lesson this day quietly carried with it:

Grief may never completely leaves the room, but sometimes the simple act of creating something with your hands, a pie crust, a warm kitchen, a familiar recipe, can soften its edges long enough to remind you that love still remains present in the smallest ordinary moments...

May 28, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections

At 5:21 AM, after another difficult battle with intense leg cramps, I finally gave up trying to stay in bed and decided to start the day.

The pain had started shortly after midnight, far more severe than usual. What once could typically be eased by simply walking around became something far more frightening last night. For several minutes the pain was so intense I found myself literally screaming while trying to move across the floor. Eventually it subsided, but the experience left me unsettled. These episodes have lingered for years, but lately they seem to be growing progressively worse and more difficult to manage.

By 4:30 AM, when I felt the familiar tightening returning in my left calf, I knew sleep was over.

I made my way carefully to the kitchen, turned on the coffee, took care of the usual morning routines, and then opened the patio door to inspect the sky and weather conditions. Despite the rough night, the morning itself held promise.

The forecast calls for sunshine and a beautiful day ahead with temperatures expected near 72 degrees. At the moment, the temperature sits around 58°, with layered clouds stretching across the horizon while thinner patches drift overhead. From experience, mornings like this often lead to dramatic lighting and interesting skies, though nature doesn’t always cooperate exactly as hoped.

Last evening brought an unexpected but enjoyable visit.

Neal’s brother Clay stopped by to look at some furniture I had offered him quite some time ago when he mentioned moving into an apartment in Pittsburgh. After looking things over, he admitted the pieces were probably too large, and perhaps “too nice,” or a third-floor apartment, and the challenge of hauling them up narrow stairways.

While he was here, I mentioned the garden and the abundance of lettuce ready for harvesting. We headed down together, and as luck would have it, Neal happened to be walking nearby. I called him over, and before long the three of us were standing among the rows talking gardening, plants, and summer.

Eventually the conversation shifted toward baking after I asked if either of them had ever tasted Dutch apple pie. Neither had the slightest idea what I meant, though both immediately agreed they were interested if pie was involved.

So up to the deck we went.

I cut generous slices, added scoops of ice cream, and we sat together talking for nearly an hour while the evening slowly settled around us. Clay eventually left for other commitments, but Neal lingered a bit longer before finally heading home around 8 PM.

Shortly afterward my daughter called to let me know my son-in-law plans to stop over this morning to help with some gardening chores. Knowing him, he’ll likely arrive early.

For now, though, the coffee is hot, the patio door stands open, and the sky outside appears to be slowly unraveling itself into what may become a beautiful morning.

After nights like the one I just endured, even the smallest signs of light feel important.