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On Grief and Grieving May 2026 Continued
- kresicki
- May 28
- 34 min read
Updated: May 31
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.
It’s now 6:13 AM and the early morning sky continues to improve ever so gently with each passing minute.
At this point I really don’t expect one of those explosive sunrise displays filled with blazing reds and fiery oranges, yet there’s something deeply satisfying about what nature is offering instead, soft pastel tones, delicate cloud textures, and subtle hints of warm color quietly brushing against the cool blue morning sky.
Sometimes the beauty of a sunrise isn’t found in dramatic spectacle, but rather in restraint, in the calm, understated way the new day slowly introduces itself without demanding attention. This morning feels very much like that. Quiet. Peaceful. Comfortable.
Standing here watching the light gradually spread across the landscape, I find myself more than willing to accept whatever this morning chooses to give. After all, not every beautiful moment has to shout to be meaningful.
It’s 3:17 PM and what had all the makings of a truly spectacular day suddenly unraveled into something far different.
My daughter was here doing laundry while my son-in-law had been outside working on building new frames for the greenhouse windows,
when, in what must have happened in only a split second, he apparently made one bad move and severely cut three fingers on his hand. The bleeding was quite intense, leaving little doubt that immediate attention was needed, so I quickly rushed him to the emergency room.
After cleaning and examining the injuries, the doctors ended up putting in 27 stitches along with metal splints on three fingers. Needless to say, it turned into a frightening and emotionally exhausting ordeal for everyone involved. Seeing someone you care about injured like that has a way of instantly changing the entire atmosphere of the day.
Upon finally returning home, I glanced out through the patio doors only to discover yet another problem waiting for me. Apparently, while we were gone, fairly heavy winds had moved through the area, and because I had forgotten to lower the umbrella over the outdoor table, the wind had lifted the table enough that it nearly turned the umbrella airborne. Another situation now waiting to be dealt with.
So much for the peaceful, beautiful morning that began with such promise. Today has definitely turned into one of those classic Murphy’s Law kind of days, the kind where if something can go wrong, it seems determined to do exactly that.
At this point, I think I’ll simply be grateful once everyone is safely home, things are secured outdoors, and the remainder of the evening passes quietly without any further surprises.
It’s 3:23 PM and I just put it out a phone call to my sister-in-law to apologize for not making the delivery of food to her that I had promised her yesterday and explain what had occurred. I told her that there was still a possibility that I might bring it over today, but I wasn’t sure whether or not that was going to happen. She assured me that it was not a problem and not to worry about it.
As always, she was completely understanding and assured me that it was not a problem at all and told me not to concern myself over it. I reiterated that there was still a possibility I might bring it over later today, although at this point I honestly wasn’t certain whether that was going to happen.
I felt the need to reassure her that "a promise is a promise" in my book, and if I tell someone I’m going to do something, I make every effort possible to follow through with it, regardless of circumstances. Perhaps that way of thinking comes from another generation, but to me keeping one’s word still matters.
At the moment however, after the events of today, everything feels a bit unsettled and emotionally drained. What began as such a calm and beautiful morning somehow evolved into a day filled with accidents, interruptions, worry, and unexpected responsibilities.
Hopefully from this point forward, the day decides to show at least a little mercy.
7:14 PM — Beneath a Perfect Blue
Once again, I’ve taken up residence at the table on the deck at the rear of the house.
The temperature rests comfortably at 68°, accompanied by a gentle breeze just cool enough to justify a light jacket. In every respect, this is the kind of evening that reminds me how beautiful late spring can be when everything comes together just right.
As I scan the horizon and the landscape stretching beyond the garden, there is not a single cloud to be found. The sky is an uninterrupted sea of blue from one edge of the world to the other. Not the pale blue of morning nor the fading blue of dusk, but a rich, confident blue that seems almost endless.
The grass glows with the deep green that only follows days of rain and sunshine. The trees stand motionless except for an occasional whisper from the breeze moving through their leaves. Even the old pool-turned-garden seems content, quietly doing what it was meant to do, surrounded by life on every side.
Moments like this are easy to overlook, yet they are often the moments that stay with us the longest. No spectacular sunrise. No dramatic storm clouds. No grand event demanding attention. Just a comfortable chair, a cool breeze, and a sky so remarkably blue that it invites a person to sit a little longer and appreciate the gift of being present.
This evening feels peaceful in a way that cannot be manufactured. It simply exists, waiting for anyone willing to stop long enough to notice.
And so I sit, watching, listening, and giving thanks for one more beautiful day beneath a magnificent blue sky.
May 29, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections - 5:51 AM
For the first time in quite a while, I almost had to force myself out of bed this morning. Not because I wanted to sleep longer, but because I was actually reasonably comfortable. Not perfect by any means, but comfortable enough that leaving the warmth of the bed required a bit of convincing.
After finally making my way up, my first stop was the kitchen to start the coffee, followed by the usual morning necessities and making the bed. With those tasks behind me, I returned to the kitchen, poured my first cup, and headed directly to the patio doors.
What greeted me was a sight worthy of the effort.
The sky was remarkably clear, painted in soft predawn blues that gradually faded toward a pale golden horizon. Not a hint of threatening weather anywhere in sight. Just calmness, clarity, and the quiet promise of a beautiful day ahead.
The temperature currently sits at a rather chilly 45°, but today's forecast calls for a high near 75°, suggesting that before long the coolness will give way to what should become a very pleasant late morning and afternoon.
Last night's sleep was far from ideal, but it was noticeably better than it has been recently. Sometimes progress comes not in dramatic leaps but in small improvements, and this morning I'm grateful for one of those small victories.
In a little while, I'll likely make my way out to the deck with another cup or two of coffee, settle into my chair at the table, and watch the world slowly awaken. There is something comforting about those quiet moments before the day fully arrives, the birds beginning their conversations, the light strengthening minute by minute, and the landscape gradually revealing itself from the shadows of night.
This morning feels like one of those mornings when simply sitting, watching, and appreciating the gift of a new day may be enough.
Morning Brew & Reflections — 6:04 AM
It’s now 6:04 AM, and as I was making my way out onto the deck, I couldn’t help but be taken aback by the sight unfolding before me.
The sun was finally beginning to lift itself above the horizon, announcing the arrival of a new day with quiet confidence. The sky, which only minutes earlier had appeared almost completely clear, now displayed the faintest whispers of clouds. Calling them clouds almost seems too generous a description.
Yet their presence mattered.
Those thin veils of vapor added just enough texture and character to transform the scene from beautiful to captivating. They softened the vastness of the sky and provided a gentle contrast to the growing brightness along the horizon. It was as if nature had decided that perfection needed just a touch of imperfection to become truly memorable.
Standing there in the cool morning air, coffee in hand, I found myself appreciating how often life's most meaningful moments arrive in much the same way, not through grand displays or dramatic events, but through small details that might easily go unnoticed if we aren't paying attention.
The landscape remains quiet. The trees stand motionless, the field rests in shadow, and the day itself still feels young and full of possibility. For now, there is nothing demanding my attention other than the simple privilege of watching another sunrise unfold.
On mornings like this, that is more than enough.
Morning Brew & Reflections — 6:30 AM
It’s now 6:30 AM, and shortly after making plans to move out onto the deck, I quickly came to the realization that with the temperature still holding stubbornly at 45°, it was simply too chilly for any extended outdoor observation session.
Reluctantly, I retreated to the more comfortable confines of the dining room and kitchen, where my sunrise watch continues from the familiar vantage point of the patio doors.
As the morning slowly unfolded before me, I found myself thinking about Fran.
I’m quite certain she would have enjoyed sitting at the dining room table this morning, coffee cup in hand, watching the day gradually awaken beyond the glass. At the same time, I’m equally certain she would have agreed that sitting outdoors in this temperature was probably not the wisest choice.
It's strange how something as ordinary as watching a sunrise can open the floodgates to memories. A particular color in the sky, the angle of the sunlight, the stillness of the morning air, somehow they transport us back to moments we once lived without realizing just how precious they were.
Looking out at the landscape today, bathed in the warm golden light of a rising sun, I couldn't help but think about how much simpler life once seemed. Not necessarily easier, but fuller. More complete. There was comfort in sharing those ordinary moments with someone who understood their value without a word needing to be spoken.
What I find myself contemplating more and more is how often we experience life's greatest gifts without fully appreciating them while they are happening. The morning coffee. The conversation across the table. The shared glance through a window. the simple act of watching a new day begin together.
Had we known how quickly such moments could become memories, perhaps we would have lingered a little longer, paid a little closer attention, held them a little tighter.
Of course, that is the nature of life. We rarely recognize the significance of ordinary days until they become part of our history.
As I stand here watching the sunlight slowly spread across the field and illuminate the trees, I am reminded of the truth contained in an old song lyric that has echoed through my thoughts many times since Fran's passing:
You don't know what you've got till it's gone.
Yet perhaps there is another lesson hidden within those words. While we cannot reclaim the moments that have passed, we can honor them by recognizing the beauty in the moments that remain.
This morning's sunrise is one of those moments.
Somewhere within its warmth, I can feel Fran beside me, appreciating it too.
This feels like one of those mornings where the sunrise outside is calm, but the sunrise inside my mind is much more complicated.
What stands out to me in this reflection is that I'm carrying two separate burdens at the same time.
The first is concern for my son-in-law. That's natural. Seeing someone you care about injured, especially when there is blood, an emergency room visit, 27 stitches, and metal splints involved, has a way of replaying itself in my mind over and over again.
The second burden is guilt.
And that one is proving much heavier.
My mind keeps returning to a familiar place: "If I had just done it myself..." Yet the reality is that if my son-in-law had been helping a neighbor, a friend, or working on his own project, the accident could have happened just as easily. The fact that it occurred while helping me does not necessarily make me the cause of it.
What I'm really struggling with may not be responsibility for the accident itself, but the growing realization that life is changing.
For most of my life, I have been the one who handled things. The one who lifted, built, repaired, carried, planted, and solved problems. Now, because of surgery, age, and physical limitations, I'm finding myself in the unfamiliar position of needing assistance.
That transition is difficult for independent people.
When I was younger, asking for help was an occasional exception. Now there are moments when it becomes a necessity, and that can feel frustrating, humbling, and sometimes even frightening. Yesterday's accident may have amplified those feelings because it attached a painful event to something I was already wrestling with emotionally.
My thoughts about tending to the flower pots this morning are another example. Years ago, it would have been a simple afternoon project. Today, I'm carefully calculating weights, restrictions, doctor's instructions, and potential consequences. The task hasn't changed; but my circumstances have.
And that can be hard to accept.
Yet there is another way to look at it.
The projects my son-in-law and I discussed last week may be delayed, but they are not necessarily lost. The flowers can wait a few days. The larger projects can wait a few months. The pie for Bob can probably wait until I feel comfortable making the trip.
The most important project at the moment is healing.
That's not nearly as satisfying as building something, planting something, or crossing items off a list, but it is still work. In fact, it may be the most important work on my list right now.
Here I am, standing at the patio doors watching the sunlight spread across the field while thinking about everything that remains undone. Yet the sunrise itself offers a quiet reminder. Nature doesn't rush. The trees don't force themselves to grow faster. The flowers bloom when conditions are right. Even the sun takes its time climbing into the sky.
Perhaps today doesn't need to be measured by how much gets accomplished.
Perhaps it can simply be measured by healing a little more, worrying a little less, and appreciating another beautiful morning that Fran would have undoubtedly enjoyed watching with me.
The projects will still be there tomorrow.
The sunrise on a given day, however, only happens once.
The earlier softness of dawn has now given way to the confident light of morning. The field is illuminated, long shadows stretch across the grass, and the two locust trees that so often frame the "portal" stand sharply defined against an almost impossibly blue sky.
What is most eye catching in this photograph are the jet contrails. They cut diagonally across the sky like bright white brushstrokes, creating a contrast between movement and stillness. Down below, everything appears quiet and rooted. Above, travelers are already miles away, heading toward destinations unknown.
There is something symbolic in that.
A short while ago my thoughts were occupied by yesterday's accident, by physical limitations, by projects delayed, by concerns over what may or may not get done this summer. Yet the landscape before me seems completely unconcerned by any of that. The sun continues its climb. The trees continue their growth. The morning continues to unfold exactly as it should.
Perhaps that is one of the lessons mornings like this quietly offer.
Not every problem needs to be solved before the day can be enjoyed.
Not every project needs to be completed today.
Not every burden needs to be carried every waking moment.
Looking at this image, I see a morning that is inviting me to simply witness it.
To sit with a cup of coffee.
To let the sunlight warm the field.
To appreciate the beauty of a day that has been freely given.
And perhaps, as I suggested earlier, to remember Fran.
I can easily see her sitting at the dining room table beside me this morning, both of us commenting on that deep blue sky, those bright contrails, and the way the sunlight is beginning to spill across the grass. Not discussing anything particularly profound, just sharing the ordinary miracle of another day.
Those are often the moments we miss most.
At 6:54 AM I was wondering what the day would bring. By the look of this photograph, one thing it has already brought is a reminder that beauty still finds its way into my mornings, even on days when my heart and mind are carrying more than their share.
Sometimes that is enough reason to pause, look out the patio doors, and be grateful for the view.
It's now 9;57 AM andhe day certainly appears to have settled into a beautiful rhythm,
Photo's I managed to capture this morning, while water the garden and flowers, tell much of the story on their own.
The first image captures an almost impossibly blue sky, the sun blazing overhead with a lone contrail cutting through the vastness.
Down in the garden, the zucchini, peppers, tomatoes, and onions all appear to be settling in nicely after their transplanting. The soil looks dry on the surface, which makes my morning watering especially timely, and the plants themselves seem healthy and upright. There is something satisfying about seeing young plants beginning to establish themselves, knowing that today's simple task of carrying water may become tomorrow's harvest.
Morning Brew & Reflections
I've just returned to the back deck, settling into my chair at the table with a fresh cup of coffee after finally mustering enough motivation to head down to the garden.
The first order of business was giving the vegetables an early morning soaking. One by one I worked my way through the raised beds, watering the tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, onions, and the rest of this year's hopeful crop.
From there I moved on to the small greenhouse alongside the house, tending to the plants growing there before making my way to the front yard where flowers already planted, and many still waiting for a permanent home,received their share of attention as well.
before making my way to the front yard where flowers already planted, and many still waiting for a permanent home,received their share of attention as well.
The effort wasn't particularly difficult, but on some mornings simply getting started can be the greatest challenge. Today was one of those mornings.
Now, back on the deck with coffee in hand, I find myself looking upward at a sky that could hardly be more beautiful. The temperature sits at a comfortable 68 degrees, the sun is shining brightly, and there is scarcely a cloud to be found. A lone jet leaves a thin white trail across the deep blue sky, a reminder that while life continues moving forward, there is still value in pausing long enough to appreciate where we are at this very moment.
The garden has been watered. The flowers have been tended. The coffee is hot. The breeze is gentle.
Thus far, all is good.
Hopefully the day continues on that path.
At this particular moment I can't help but think about the contrast between my earlier thoughts of worry and responsibility regarding my son-in-law's accident and this moment of simple accomplishment. There is something healing about caring for living things, watering a garden, tending flowers, watching them grow despite our inability to control everything else around us. Today seems to have offered me a brief but welcome reminder of that.
The tomatoes appear healthy and well-established.
The peppers are standing tall and seem to have adjusted nicely after transplanting.
The zucchini plants are beginning to spread.
The sweet peas climbing the arbor are flowering beautifully.
The hanging marigold baskets provide a splash of color and acts as a cheerful focal point.
And that lettuce bed is simply magnificent lush, vibrant, and practically overflowing.
The old swimming pool conversion continues to impress me. What once held water now holds food, flowers, and life. There's something symbolic about that transformation.
After finishing my morning rounds with the watering can, I took a few moments to simply stand back and look over the garden as a whole.
The tomatoes continue to gain size and strength with each passing day. The peppers seem to have settled into their new surroundings, and the zucchini plants are beginning to spread their leaves in anticipation of what I hope will be a productive season.
Along the arbor, the sweet peas have begun climbing and flowering, adding a touch of beauty among the vegetables, while a hanging basket of marigolds provides a bright burst of orange against the morning sky.
Perhaps most impressive at the moment is the lettuce bed. What began as a handful of seeds has transformed into a dense sea of green leaves, enough to remind me once again that nature has a remarkable way of rewarding patience.
Standing there in the sunshine, I couldn't help but think about how much has changed over the years. What was once a swimming pool is now a garden enclosed within its walls, producing food, flowers, and countless moments of quiet reflection. It serves as a reminder that even things which have outlived their original purpose can be transformed into something new and meaningful.
As I returned to the deck with coffee in hand, I felt a sense of satisfaction knowing that, at least for today, the garden is thriving, the sun is shining, and life continues to move forward one small task at a time.
Evening Reflections — May 29, 2026
It's currently 5:59 PM and I must say it has been quite an eventful day, but also a productive and enjoyable one.
Weather-wise, I couldn't have asked for much more. The sky remained a brilliant blue from morning until evening, temperatures were warm but comfortable, and a gentle breeze seemed to accompany the day from beginning to end.
Earlier this morning I sent a text message to Fran's longtime friend and partner in crime, letting her know that I had an abundance of lettuce in the garden and that she was welcome to come and get some if she wished. She replied that she was visiting her son, who lives about an hour away, and wouldn't be home until Sunday or Monday. I told her there would still be plenty waiting whenever she was ready.
Around noon my phone rang. It was Fran's friend Nancy calling simply to say hello and see how I was doing. What started as a casual conversation quickly evolved into one of those discussions that seems to take on a life of its own. We talked about everything imaginable. When we finally said our goodbyes, I glanced at the phone and discovered we had been talking for one hour and fifty-three minutes.
At around 3 PM my daughter and son-in-law stopped by. They had come to water the plants, not realizing I had already taken care of that task earlier in the morning. Even so, the extra watering certainly didn't hurt anything. They stayed for about an hour, and we spent the time talking on the deck and enjoying the beautiful afternoon.
During our conversation I suggested that perhaps tonight might be a good evening to visit the little countryside custard stand a few miles from home. They agreed, and tentative plans were made.
While they were here my son called from North Carolina. After my daughter and son-in-law left, I returned his call and spent another fifteen or twenty minutes catching up with him.
Today also marked my youngest grandson's (Cooper) birthday. Earlier in the day I sent him an electronic birthday greeting along with a little walking-around money. Before long he replied, thanking me both for remembering his birthday and for the gift.
Hearing back from him brought a smile to my face.
Now, as evening approaches, my daughter has called again to confirm plans for ice cream. Apparently this day isn't finished with me yet
.
Looking back over the hours, I realize how fortunate I've been today. Good weather, a thriving garden, long conversations with friends, time spent with family, a birthday celebration from afar, and plans still waiting for the evening ahead.
Not every day unfolds this way, and perhaps that's what makes days like this so special.
Today was full.
And I enjoyed every minute of it.
Evening Reflections — The Beauty of Staying Put
At 6:52 PM, I had just finished a phone conversation with my daughter. She was calling to let me know that my son-in-law wasn't feeling up to making the trip for ice cream this evening. I simply told her that was perfectly fine; there will be plenty of other days for ice cream.
With the knowledge that I wasn't going anywhere, I immediately transplanted myself to a chair at the table on the deck to soak up what remained of this magnificent day.
From my perch on the east-facing deck, I found myself surrounded by familiar companions. To the northeast stands the gigantic oak tree that I nurtured from a tiny seedling many years ago.
To the right, facing south-east, are the two locust trees that form the "portal" I so often speak of and photograph.
Together they frame a landscape that has become as much a part of me as the memories I carry.
At this hour, the shadows stretching across the grass have grown long and dramatic, creating what seems like an entirely different landscape layered upon the original one. The contrast between sunlight and shadow transforms ordinary ground into something almost magical.
The temperature sits at a comfortable 74 degrees, accompanied by a gentle breeze that is neither warm nor cool but simply pleasant in every sense of the word. It is difficult to imagine weather any more agreeable
.
Although the seven o'clock hour is quickly approaching, the garden continues to bathe in abundant sunshine, soaking up the day's remaining warmth.
Looking across the beds and greenhouse, I couldn't help but think that the garden was enjoying this evening every bit as much as I was.
Some days ask very little of us. They require no plans, no destinations, and no schedules. They simply invite us to sit quietly, observe, and appreciate what is already before us
.
This evening was one of those gifts.
May 30, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections - Saturday, May 30 — 5:17 AM
What I thought might finally be a reasonably restful night turned out to be anything but. After dozing off in the recliner around 9:00 PM, I woke just before midnight and decided to head to bed earlier than usual. It seemed like a sensible plan at the time.
Unfortunately, by 2:00 AM my eyes were wide open again, almost precisely the hour I would have expected had I remained in the recliner any longer. I managed to drift off briefly, but by 3:00 AM sleep had once again surrendered, leaving me locked in a silent contest with the clock on the nightstand. For the next couple of hours, neither of us seemed willing to give an inch.
Eventually, I conceded defeat.
Coffee became the obvious next step.
Now, standing at the open patio doors with my first cup warming my hands, the frustration of a restless night is slowly giving way to appreciation for the morning unfolding before me.
The world outside is remarkably still.
At 53 degrees, the air is cool enough to feel refreshing but not uncomfortable. There isn't a cloud to be found anywhere overhead. The sky is painted in deep shades of blue, transitioning gently toward the horizon where daylight is quietly gathering strength. The silhouettes of the trees stand motionless against the approaching dawn, as if they too are waiting for the first appearance of the sun.
The forecast promises sunshine throughout the day, something I never tire of hearing. Later this afternoon the winds are expected to increase, perhaps reaching fifteen miles per hour, but for now the morning belongs to calmness.
There is something reassuring about these moments before sunrise.
The world hasn't fully awakened yet. There are no demands, no schedules, no obligations. Only silence, fresh air, hot coffee, and the promise of another day waiting patiently beyond the horizon.
Given how inviting the morning feels, I suspect it won't be long before I find myself outdoors, watching the sun make its appearance. After a night spent wrestling with sleep, perhaps the dawn will offer a bit of the peace that escaped me in the darkness.
Standing here now, looking out beneath that vast predawn sky, I can't help but think that it already has.
Morning Brew & Reflections -6:34 AM
At 6:34 this morning, the sun finally crested the horizon, announcing its arrival in spectacular fashion. What only a short time ago was a landscape of dark silhouettes beneath a deep blue predawn sky has now transformed into a scene awash in golden light. The trees, field, and distant horizon seem almost eager to welcome another beautiful day.
After capturing a photograph of the moment, I stood outside for a while longer, coffee cup in hand, simply taking it all in. The air remains wonderfully fresh, but there comes a point where refreshing begins to edge toward chilly. I found myself gripping that coffee cup a little tighter, not so much for the caffeine as for the warmth it provided to my hands.
Perhaps that was a message.
Whether it was a message from common sense, advancing age, or simply Mother Nature herself, I eventually decided it was time to retreat indoors and continue enjoying the morning from the comfort of the kitchen.
For now, the day remains largely unwritten.
There are no firm plans on the calendar, although I would like to reach out to my friend Bob and see if he's at home. If so, I will make the trip over to deliver the Dutch apple pie I baked on Wednesday. Knowing Bob, there is always the possibility that a simple pie delivery could evolve into a pleasant conversation and a cup of coffee.
As the morning progresses and the temperatures begin their climb, I suspect the garden will eventually call my name as well. There are plants already settled into their places in the soil and others still patiently waiting their turn. If the sunshine continues and the ground begins to dry, a walk through the garden with a watering wand in hand may very well become part of today's agenda.
For the moment, however, there is no rush.
The sun has risen, the coffee is hot, and the day stretches out ahead filled with possibilities. Sometimes that is more than enough.
Judging by the brilliant blue sky now unfolding overhead, today appears to be off to a very promising start.
Evening Reflections
It's 8:19 PM, and I've finally found an opportunity to sit down and enjoy what remains of this beautiful day.
The day began early. At around 8:30 this morning, I left the house intending to make a quick trip to the market and then stop by a local Toyota dealership to see if they might have something suitable for my son.
Over the past couple of months, our conversations have frequently drifted toward the condition of his current vehicle. More than once he has commented that he hopes it will somehow survive the summer. After hearing that enough times, I finally told him that if he was serious about replacing it, I would be willing to look around and see what I could find.
His response was simple.
"If you have the time and can find a decent deal, let me know."
That was exactly what I intended to do.
When I arrived at the dealership, I had absolutely no intention of considering a new vehicle. Years of experience have taught me that brand-new cars often come with a hefty price tag and a healthy dose of depreciation the moment you drive them off the lot. My focus was entirely on used vehicles.
Unfortunately, the prices I was seeing were enough to make me question my eyesight.
While there, I ran into the same salesman who sold me my Avalon last spring. We sat down and talked for a while, and I asked whether any of the dealerships associated with their group might have something worth considering.
After searching inventory for a bit, he pointed toward a vehicle sitting in the showroom.
"How about that one?"
It was a brand-new 2026 model Corolla XSE sedan.
I reminded him that I wasn't interested in a new vehicle, but he smiled and said he might be able to put together a deal worth looking at.
I told him he was welcome to try, but as the Italians would say, he'd have to make me an offer I couldn't refuse.
An hour later he returned with numbers that were certainly better than I expected, though still higher than I believed my son could reasonably afford. I thanked him, gathered some information, and headed home.
Once there, I sent photographs and details to my son in North Carolina and told him to take some time and think about it.
Not long afterward, my friend Bob called to see if I was home. He was on his way to visit his sister and planned to stop by. A few minutes later he called again and asked if I wanted anything from the Italian market he would be passing along the way.
I told him that was entirely up to him.
Around 1:30 PM, Bob arrived carrying a wonderful assortment of goodies from the market. The two of us settled in on the deck, shared lunch, and spent the better part of the afternoon enjoying good food and even better conversation.
He eventually departed around 3:00 PM to continue on to his sister's house.
Not long after Bob left, the salesman called again.
Being the last day of the month, he explained that dealerships are highly motivated to move inventory. He sharpened his pencil once more and reduced the price by another thousand dollars.
When I jokingly asked if that was the best he could do, he smiled and claimed they were only making about $250 on the vehicle.
I've bought enough cars over the years to know that statement belonged somewhere between salesmanship and fiction.
Still, after spending part of the afternoon researching comparable vehicles at other dealerships, I had to admit the offer was genuinely competitive.
The challenge, of course, was that my son lives in North Carolina and wasn't standing beside me to sign paperwork. The dealership wanted to close the deal before month's end, and the proposed solution was for me to purchase the vehicle and then transfer it to him later.
It was something I had absolutely no desire to become involved in.
But when I considered how much driving he does and how unreliable his current vehicle has become, I reluctantly agreed.
Sometimes being a parent doesn't end when your children become adults.
The circumstances change, but the instinct remains exactly the same.
Later in the afternoon, my daughter and son-in-law stopped by after grocery shopping. We visited for a while before they headed home.
Now, as I sit here on the deck, the sun has long since slipped below the horizon. The air has begun to cool, the shadows have merged into evening darkness, and the events of the day are finally catching up with me.
It has been a surprisingly busy day. Much more so than I had ever anticipated
A day that began with a simple trip to the market somehow ended with lunch with a good friend, and an afternoon of negotiations. and what may become a new chapter for my son.
For now, though, I think I've had about enough for one day.
The coffee has been replaced by evening quiet, the sky is growing darker by the minute, and my recliner is sounding more inviting with every passing moment.
Tomorrow can wait until morning.
May31, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
This morning arrived with an unexpected gift: sleep.
After first waking around 5:00 AM, I managed to drift back to sleep and did not finally leave bed until 7:20 AM. Considering the restless nights that have become all too familiar lately, that felt nearly miraculous. The journey to get there was anything but conventional. Last evening I moved from the deck to the recliner sometime around 8:00 or 8:30 PM, turned on an episode of a television series I've been following, and remember little after that.
I woke around midnight and briefly considered going to bed, but after sleeping several hours in the recliner I was convinced I would simply lie awake staring at the ceiling. Instead, I settled back into the chair, fell asleep again, and remained there until roughly 3:00 AM before finally making my way to the bedroom.
Somehow, despite the unusual arrangement, my body managed to collect more rest than it has in quite some time.
The morning wasn't entirely without its concerns. My left ankle felt unusually weak when I first got up, making walking somewhat awkward and uncertain. Once I put my shoes on, it seemed to improve, though not completely. Whether it's simply stiffness, fatigue, or one more reminder that the years continue to accumulate, I can't say. For now, it's something I'll keep an eye on as the day progresses.
With the patio door standing open, cool air from the 51-degree morning drifts quietly through the house. The sky is a flawless blue from horizon to horizon. The sun has announced its presence, though it remains hidden behind the pine tree in the backyard. What strikes me most this morning is the silence. There is little wind, little movement, and even the birds seem strangely subdued. It feels as though the entire landscape is pausing for a moment of quiet reflection.
I had hoped to spend part of the day planting a few more additions in the garden, but whether that happens may depend on how the ankle responds after a few cups of coffee and a little time. For now, there is no rush. The day is young, the sky is clear, and the possibilities remain open.
Sometimes that is enough.
At close to 8:00 AM, coffee in hand, I abandoned my usual seat at the table and wandered toward the right side of the deck. From that vantage point, the rising sun finally revealed itself, casting its first golden touches across the landscape. Looking upward, I was greeted by one of those skies that seem almost too blue to be real a flawless dome stretching from horizon to horizon without a single interruption. The familiar locust trees stood in silhouette against the morning light while the hillside slowly emerged from the shadows. In that moment it became abundantly clear that whatever the day might bring,
This mornings sunrise photograph tells the story beautifully.
The first thing that catches my eye is that extraordinary blue sky. There isn't merely a lack of clouds, there's a richness and depth to the blue that seems to intensify as my eyes move upward. It has that rare quality I sometimes see only a handful of times each year, when the atmosphere appears almost polished.
The sun, still low in the sky and partially screened by the trees on the left, is creating a wonderful contrast. The hillside is already beginning to glow while the foreground trees remain mostly in shadow, giving the scene a sense of transition, as though the landscape is slowly awakening rather than suddenly illuminated.
And there, standing prominently on the right, are my familiar locust trees. Their vine-covered trunks rise almost like sentinels guarding the edge of the property. With the morning light catching their upper branches, they seem even more sculptural than usual against that vast expanse of blue.
What strikes me most is the feeling of space. Nearly three-quarters of the image is sky, which emphasizes just how open and calm the morning feels. The silence I described earlier almost becomes visible in the photograph. There is no sense of urgency here, only stillness, light, and promise.
After several days of sunshine and blue skies, it almost feels as though spring is making amends for some of those gray, damp days we have endured recently. And judging by this mornings photograph, the old haymaker appears to have arrived for work right on schedule.
Morning Brew & Reflections
By 8:56 AM, the day had matured into something altogether different from the cool dawn that greeted me earlier. Seated at the table on the deck, coffee nearby and surrounded by familiar scenery, I found myself basking in the warmth of a sun that seemed determined to make up for every gray day we have endured.
The sunlight had become intense enough that I eventually raised the umbrella, seeking a bit of shade from its growing strength. Yet the cool morning air lingered just enough to temper the heat, creating a balance that was difficult to improve upon. The warmth on my face and arms combined with the gentle breeze made sitting outdoors not only comfortable but thoroughly enjoyable.
Looking upward, the sky had deepened into a rich blue, interrupted only by the brilliant glow of the sun. Across the field and through the trees, everything appeared vibrant and alive. It was one of those mornings that quietly reminds us how much pleasure can be found in the simplest of moments, a comfortable chair, a cup of coffee, a gentle breeze, and the warmth of sunshine after a long stretch of cooler days.
Sometimes the best part of the day is simply being present long enough to appreciate it.
The earlier image looked outward toward the landscape and sky. This one places the viewer directly in myr chair. The coffee cup rests quietly on the table, the umbrella stands like a protective canopy overhead, and the sun, though partially hidden, still announces its presence by glowing through the fabric itself. The result is a scene that feels less like a photograph and more like an invitation to sit down and stay awhile.
What strikes me most is the way the sunlight transforms the umbrella. Rather than simply blocking the sun, it becomes a lantern of sorts, diffusing the light and creating a soft, warm glow overhead. The deep blue sky beyond serves as a perfect backdrop, while the familiar trees and rolling green field remain as faithful companions to another beautiful morning on the deck.
9:05 AM
This incredibly spectacular morning continues to improve with each passing minute.
The sun has now climbed to approximately a forty-five-degree angle above the horizon and is beginning to assert itself with considerable strength. Earlier, I raised the umbrella to provide relief from the growing warmth, but as I sit here now, I find myself fascinated by the way the sunlight permeates the fabric overhead.
Looking upward from the deck table, the umbrella no longer seems like a shield from the sun but rather a filter through which its brilliance gently passes. The light glows softly through the material, creating an entirely different perspective than the direct rays that greeted me earlier. It is as if the morning has revealed yet another layer of its personality.
The cool air still lingers just enough to keep the warmth pleasant rather than overwhelming. Coffee cup in hand, surrounded by blue sky, green fields, and familiar trees, I find it difficult to imagine a more comfortable place to be.
There are mornings when nature quietly whispers its beauty, and there are mornings when it seems determined to put on a performance. Today is unquestionably the latter.
Evening Reflection – 6:15 PM
After spending much of the afternoon resting, I finally found the energy to make my way down to the garden around 5:00 PM. Over the course of the next hour, I managed to plant a dozen tomato plants, water the entire garden, and make my way to the greenhouse for one final round of watering.
The weather, which had been spectacular from the start of the day, only seemed to improve as evening approached. Earlier this afternoon, temperatures reached 75 degrees in full sunshine. Now, with the sun moving toward the western side of the house and the deck once again in shade.
As I sat down to rest after finishing, I found myself thinking about how much has changed. There was a time when I could spend entire days working in the garden without ever feeling tired. From sunrise until well into the evening, there was always one more thing to plant, one more bed to weed, one more project waiting to be tackled.
There was a time when I could spend an entire day in the garden without giving fatigue a second thought. I worked because there was work to do, and because the garden itself was a source of joy. Now, even though the joy remains, reaching the point where I can fully engage with it requires more effort. Part of that is undoubtedly physical. Recovery from surgery, age, aching joints, and the realities of a body that has carried me through seventy-six years, all play their role.
But I suspect there is something else as well.
When Fran was here, every tomato planted, every weed pulled, every flower tended was part of a shared life. Even when she wasn't physically beside mr in the garden, she was part of the reason for it. The harvest would be shared. The successes would be celebrated together. The failures laughed about together. The work carried a different weight because it was woven into the fabric of our life as a couple.
Now the garden remains, but so much of the context has changed.
Yet despite that, I still planted twelve tomato plants today.
I still watered the beds
.
I still made my way to the greenhouse.
I still stood beneath that magnificent sky and participated in another growing season.
Hopefully, that matters.
Perhaps the wisdom of this evening is found in the very question I asked my self:
"Why push it? Tomorrow's another day."
Years ago, I might have planted twenty-four tomatoes before supper and thought nothing of it. Today I planted twelve and knew when it was time to stop.
Hopefully, that isn't weakness.
Hopefully, that's experience.
The garden will still be there tomorrow morning. The greenhouse will still be waiting. The sun will once again climb over the eastern horizon and illuminate the field, the trees, and the deck where so many of my reflections begin.
And if the weather cooperates as beautifully as it did today, I'll have another opportunity to continue what I've already started.
Today I found myself needing to gather the motivation, energy, and strength just to get started. Yet once I did, I still enjoyed it every bit as much as I always have.
By the time the last tomato plant was tucked into the soil, I considered making another trip to the greenhouse for more plants. Common sense prevailed. Why push it? Tomorrow is another day, and hopefully one just as beautiful as this one.
Sometimes wisdom is knowing not only when to begin, but also when to stop.
Late Evening Reflection
It's about purpose.
When Fran was here, the garden wasn't simply a garden. It was fresh lettuce for her salad. It was tomatoes for sandwiches. It was cucumbers, peppers, and all the little pleasures that eventually found their way to the dinner table. Even when she teased me about spending too much time in the garden, she was part of the reason I was doing it.
The same could be said of so many things I have written about over the past year.
The baking wasn't just baking. The cooking wasn't just cooking. The sunrise photographs weren't just photographs. They all existed within the context of a shared life.
Now, when I find mysef asking, "Why bother?" or "What's the point?" I don't think I'm questioning the value of gardening.
I think I'm grieving the absence of the person for whom so much of that effort once mattered.
What stands out to me, though, is that despite those thoughts, I still planted twelve tomato plants.
I still watered the garden.
I still cared enough to notice the sky, the breeze, the temperature, and the beauty of the evening.
That tells me something important.
The voice asking, "What's the point?" is there.
But another voice is still there too.
The one that got up from the recliner.
The one that walked down to the garden.
The one that put those plants into the ground.
The one that took photographs and shared them.
The one that still finds joy in a perfect 73-degree evening with a gentle breeze.
Neither voice is wrong. They simply coexist.
One voice misses Fran and everything that was lost.
The other is quietly trying to keep living.
I suspect Fran would immediately recognize both.
And if she were standing beside me on that deck this evening, I can hear her saying something along the lines of, "You planted twelve tomatoes? That's enough for one day. The rest can wait until tomorrow."
Not because the garden wasn't important, but because I was.
The irony is that the garden may still be serving the same purpose it always did. The vegetables may no longer be destined for the same dinner table, but they are feeding my daughter and her family, friends like Bob, neighbors, other family members, and anyone fortunate enough to receive part of the harvest.
The circle has widened.
It isn't the same circle, and it never will be.
But the seedlings I planted this evening are still acts of caring.
Perhaps on days like today, when motivation is hard to find, that's enough reason to bother.
Not because the grief is gone.
Not because I've figured everything out.
Because tomorrow morning those tomato plants will be there waiting for the sunrise, just as I will be.
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