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On Grief and Grieving - November 2025
- kresicki
- Oct 31, 2025
- 57 min read
Updated: Nov 15, 2025
November 1, 2025
Saturday Morning Reflections — November 1
It’s currently 11:45 AM on this cool Saturday morning, the first day of November. The house has been alive with purpose since early dawn, the quiet hum of the oven, the scent of pastry, the rhythm of a wooden spoon stirring soup. It’s been a busy morning, but one filled with meaning.
On the counter, trays of delicate lady locks rest in neat rows — golden, flaky, and brushed with a gentle shimmer of pumpkin pie spice sugar. They remind me of Fran, and of the woman who used to bake dozens upon dozens of cookies each holiday season. I prepared them the way Fran always did, then gave them my own small twist, a touch of autumn warmth folded into a memory of love and tradition. They’ll be filled later with pumpkin spice cream and shared at Neal and Clay’s gathering tonight.
Meanwhile, a pot of soup simmers on the stove, rich with vegetables, tortellini, and the scent of herbs rising through the kitchen. It’s bound for my sister-in-law, who called a few nights ago to say how much she’d enjoyed the last batch I made. There’s something special about making food for those we care about, a kind of language that doesn’t need words.
Tomorrow, I’ll likely bake a loaf of crusty Italian bread to go along with the soup and lasagna rolls I’ll be taking to her. For now, there’s still plenty to do before my 12:45 sonogram appointment and the evening’s gathering. Whatever gets done will be enough, what doesn’t can wait.
This morning began with the sunrise, a sky brushed with rose and gold, clouds parting slowly to let the light through. Standing there in the chill of early November, I felt a quiet message in that light, a reminder that beauty persists, that each new day offers its own grace.
The kitchen sign above the counter says, “This kitchen is seasoned with love.” And today, that feels especially true, in every pastry, every pot of soup, and every memory stirred gently back to life.
Saturday Evening Reflections — November 1
It’s pushing 9:30 PM on this cool Saturday night. I just returned home from Neal and Clay’s house, where an impromptu bonfire gathered friends and neighbors together beneath a crisp November sky. I was a bit hesitant to go at first, the temperature has dropped quite a bit, and truth be told, I’m not much for the cold anymore. Probably not even for “cool.”
The afternoon was spent preparing desserts for the evening, apple pie egg-rolls, and two kinds of lady locks: the classic version with cream filling, and my new twist, rolled in pumpkin spice sugar and filled with pumpkin spice cream. When Clay told everyone I’d made the desserts, there were a few raised eyebrows of disbelief, until I assured them I had photos to prove it. The laughter that followed was warm and good-natured, and everything turned out as delicious as I’d hoped.
I met several new faces tonight, people who, surprisingly, have been my neighbors for years. It was nice to connect, to share food and stories by the fire’s glow. There was something grounding about it all, simple conversation, good food, and the shared comfort of warmth against the chill.
While having a conversation with one of the younger people in attendance, that person said to me, "you're pretty cool for an old guy." I replied, "under normal circumstances I would take that as a compliment, but right now I'm far beyond cool, I'm freaking freezing. With that I bid you all a good night!"
While I was there, my daughter called, thinking I’d already returned home. She sounded surprised that I was still out enjoying the evening. I called her once I got back to let her know I have extra lady locks and apple pie egg-rolls set aside for her, along with some of the soup I made earlier in the day.
Now that I’m home and thawing out, I think a bowl of that soup will be just the thing to bring back a little warmth, both to the body and to the spirit. It’s been a full day, one of effort, connection, and quiet gratitude.
November 2, 2025
Morning Reflection — Sunday, November 2, 2025
The Language of Pairs
It was around 7:00 this morning when the day began to stir. I’d poured my first cup of coffee and stepped into the kitchen, still half wrapped in the quiet of early morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught motion on the porch, at first, I thought it was the chipmunk that sometimes darts through the yard, but that seemed unlikely given the porch is six feet off the ground.
Looking closer, I realized it was a cardinal, then a second one appeared, a bright red male and his softer-hued companion. They hopped from the table to the chair, to the porch floor and back again, flitting and pausing as if exploring this unfamiliar space. I’ve often seen cardinals in the yard, but never this close, never on the porch itself. The air was 38°, crisp but not biting, dry enough that the boards and furniture were free of dew. Everything felt clear and gently alive, a peaceful start to the day.
Not long after, as I looked out toward the back field, I saw a large deer grazing in the open space behind the house. Then, further off, another, moving slowly, quietly, feeding in the same stillness. They were too far to tell whether they were doe, fawn, or perhaps a pair, but the sight was calm and deeply soothing.
It struck me then, two cardinals, two deer, pairs of creatures crossing my morning within the span of an hour. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was meaning in that, a message of sorts, or perhaps just the world showing me something I needed to notice. Then I realized: for most of my life, I was part of a pair too, two souls walking the same path, sharing the same days. Now, though not in the same way, that bond remains.
Maybe these pairs were simply reminders, not of what is gone, but of what endures. Love changes shape, but it does not disappear. It lingers in the small quiet places, in the morning light, in the gentle companionship of the living world.
Evening Reflection — Sunday, November 2, 2025
The Weight of Early Darkness
It turns out I was a day off this morning, I truly thought it was Saturday. Perhaps it was the time change, or perhaps just the blur of days lately. They seem to flow into one another now, less distinct, harder to keep track of. Maybe that’s something that comes with age, though it’s still a little unsettling to admit.
Around 9:30, my oldest grandson called, something he’s done regularly for quite some time now. He’s twenty-one, busy with work and his own life, and yet he still takes the time to check in on me. It always warms me to hear his voice and to know that he thinks to call. That kind of thoughtfulness isn’t common among people his age, and I appreciate it deeply every time the phone rings.
After my morning coffee, I got right to work. I baked three loaves of bread and made a large pan of halushski, an old Eastern European favorite that both Fran and I grew up with. Fried cabbage and onions seasoned just right, mixed today with gnocchi instead of noodles. The smell filled the house and carried me back to childhood kitchens long past.
Around 11:00, my son-in-law appeared at the back porch door, saying he’d come to cut the grass. These days that’s a kindness I don’t take lightly, it’s getting harder for me to do it myself. After he left, I packaged up some food for him and my daughter: soup, halushski, pumpkin spice lady locks, apple pie egg rolls,and a loaf of the fresh bread.
Later, I did the same for my sister-in-law, this time adding some of the lasagna rotini and homemade spaghetti I’d made earlier in the week. I took everything over to her house around 3:00, and she was deeply appreciative. We sat and talked for a while, and of course Fran came up in the conversation.
That’s when she left the room and returned with a small children’s book, one Fran had given her years ago. It was about twenty-five or thirty pages long, and Fran had written little notes on every page, connecting the story to moments from their childhood. She began reading a few aloud, and before long, we were both in tears. It was one of those moments that hurt and comforted at the same time, grief woven together with love.
Afterward, I stopped at the grocery store before heading home. The day had been bright and cool, the kind of autumn day that feels honest and simple. But around 5:00, darkness arrived all at once, and that’s when things began to unravel. The sudden early nightfall always unsettles me. I knew it was coming, tried to brace for it, but the reality still hits hard. The house feels too quiet, the evening too long.
By 5:30 I found myself pacing, feeling restless and a little trapped by the darkness. I couldn’t even go out to sit on the porch, which somehow made the walls feel closer. To distract myself, I made another batch of pumpkin spice lady locks, everyone who’s tried them has loved them, and I hadn’t made quite enough to go around the first time. The rhythm of baking helped, for a while.
I sat down to watch 60 Minutes around 7:00 but must have drifted off, because I woke up at 8:30 and realized I’d missed most of what I wanted to see. It frustrated me more than it should have, I suppose.
Now I think I’ll add a few thoughts to my blog before calling it a night. The day itself was good, full, productive, even meaningful. But the shortness of it, the loss of light, has left me feeling unsteady again. There’s something about that sudden darkness that magnifies everything you feel, and tonight, it’s loneliness that echoes the loudest.
November 3, 2025
Monday, November 3 — Late Morning Reflection
It’s currently 9:45 AM, and after consuming more than three cups of coffee while trying to develop a plan for the day, I can at least say the lady locks are filled and ready for consumption.
The air outside seems to be warming up, and the sun is still shining quite brightly. If this continues, I may go out and start detailing my car, something I’ve wanted to do for a while to prepare it for the winter months and all the salt that comes with them.
I purchased my car last May, just before Fran passed. Truth be told, I was perfectly fine with the car we already had, but over the past few years, Fran had often said, “I can’t believe you haven’t bought a new car yet.” I always told her that since we drove so few miles anymore, the one we had, even with over 160,000 miles on it, was just fine.
After a little gentle nudging from her, I finally found a 2022 Toyota Avalon that looked as though it had just rolled out of the showroom and decided to buy it. I had looked at several vehicles and test-driven a few, but there were certain requirements that had to be met before I’d make the purchase.
Cost, of course, was a major factor. Mileage came next. But most important were the features that would make things easier for Fran, power seats in the front, heated seats, and enough ground clearance so she could enter and exit comfortably from her wheelchair.
Now, every time I drive that car or even glance at it in the driveway, I can’t help but think to myself, what was the point? She passed the very next month after I bought it.
Evening Reflection
Monday, November 3, 2025 – 7:47 PM
It’s been a relatively eventful day, even though I haven’t been feeling all that well. I suppose it’s the price I pay for putting off procedures I should’ve had done a long time ago. But with Fran not being well for so long and me needing to care for her, taking any real downtime for myself just wasn’t an option.
The morning started slowly, but as things warmed up outside, I managed to get a couple of loads of laundry done and made good progress waxing my car, about three-quarters of it. When the sun was out this afternoon, it felt fairly comfortable, even with just a sweatshirt on. Still, this “getting old” business is really starting to wear on me. Things that once came easy now seem to take twice the effort and three times the time. What used to be a two-hour job stretched into nearly four, and I'm not finished, though I admit there were a few interruptions along the way.
Neal stopped by, bringing the coffee cup I’d left at his house Saturday night along with a couple of empty containers I’d sent food in. Not long after he left, a woman walking her dog stopped to chat. She asked if I was Kim’s father, Kim being my daughter, and then launched into a long conversation about how Kim had been her son’s kindergarten teacher. We talked for more than half an hour. She was pleasant and kind, and I suspect, weather permitting, I might see her again. She seemed to enjoy talking, and truth be told, I didn’t mind at all. These days, I actually find such chance conversations rather enjoyable.
By around four, I came inside, sat down in my chair, put on some music, and must have drifted off pretty quickly. This body just can’t handle what it used to. Later, around six, I remembered the peppers I’d pulled from the garden and a couple of small steaks I had thawed, so I decided to make steak teriyaki for dinner.
It turned out fairly well, though I had to cut the sauce a bit since the soy sauce I used wasn’t low-sodium, too salty for my taste. After adjusting it, it was fine, but in hindsight, maybe not the best meal choice for an unsettled stomach.
I’ve had abdominal pain most of the day, and a lighter meal probably would’ve been wiser. I still haven’t eaten yet, truth is, I’m not all that hungry. Maybe later I’ll just have a bowl of the soup I made a few days ago.
My son-in-law texted to let me know that my daughter’s procedure went well and that she’s doing fine. That news eased my mind quite a bit. She’s always so caring and checks in often, sometimes too often, but it’s only because she worries. I keep telling her I’m a big boy now, and if I need help, I’ll ask for it. Still, I’m grateful for her love and concern.
As the evening settles in, I’m left feeling tired but thankful, for family, for small kindnesses, and even for the strength to do a little more than I thought I could today.
November 4, 2025
Morning Reflection — “Light Behind Lace”
It’s just past sunrise, and the world feels quietly renewed. The air is cool, almost startling in its freshness, as though Mother Nature spent the night scrubbing it clean of every impurity. There isn’t a hint of dew, not a trace of moisture, only the gentle curl of steam rising from my coffee cup, swirling like a slow dance in the stillness.
The horizon is changing, but without hurry. The colors move softly from blue to pale gold, then to a faint orange that glows behind the trees. The sun hasn’t yet cleared the branches, it lingers, a light behind lace, the canopies weaving a delicate pattern of darkness before it.
There’s something quietly powerful in watching the day arrive this way. It doesn’t burst into being, it unfolds, patient and unassuming. For a few moments, it feels almost existential, like standing at the edge of something vast and eternal, where time itself is taking a breath.
Then, as the minutes slip by, the sound of the world begins to return. Heavy equipment rumbles in the distance, preparing for another day’s work at the school nearby. The peacefulness is interrupted, but not lost. Even through the noise, the beauty lingers in the air, reminding me that serenity isn’t something we find, it’s something we notice, if only for a moment, before life begins again.
Tuesday Morning Reflections — November 4
It’s currently 10:21 AM, and the day has already taken a few pleasant turns. Yesterday, I’d called my brother-in-law to tell him I had some lasagna rotini in the freezer for him and his wife, along with some soup and a few of the lady locks I made over the weekend. He said he’d stop by around 9:30, his usual time when he visits, but by then he still hadn’t arrived.
I called his cell phone, thinking maybe he’d forgotten, since I had already made us a couple of breakfast sandwiches, eggs, cheese, ham, a few slices of tomato, and just a touch of mayo on everything bagels. After a few rings, his wife answered and told me he had gone to church earlier and then planned to head to the gym, though she wasn’t sure if he’d still be stopping by.
Sure enough, around 9:45 he pulled in. We had breakfast together, chatted for a while, and I sent him off with a box full of food, meals made with care, shared with love.
Now, I’m sitting outside on the deck, and the weather is nothing short of spectacular. The sky is a clear, endless blue with only a few wisps of cloud — more like soft brushstrokes than clouds at all. The sun shines warmly, and I can feel it on my skin like a tender embrace.
Days like this are rare, especially in November, and I know there won’t be many more before the cold settles in. So today, the indoor tasks can wait. The weather is too perfect, too generous to ignore.
I find myself wondering why more people aren’t out walking, soaking it in, though maybe that’s the sentimental part of me talking. Perhaps it’s just something age gives you, a quiet understanding that these simple, ordinary moments are anything but.
Afternoon Reflection — November 4
It’s now 3:17 PM, and all things considered, I’ve accomplished quite a bit today. I finished waxing the car, then gave it a full interior detailing, not just the cabin, but under the hood and even the trunk. Everything looks and feels refreshed, almost as though the car itself is breathing easier.
When my neighbor Jane returned home, I stopped to chat with her for a few minutes as she got out of her car. I offered her some of the lady locks I’d made, and she was more than happy to accept, though, as always, she laughed and said, “Oh my goodness, you have to stop! I’m on a diet.” I also gave her a blueberry muffin for good measure. I told her that at this stage of life, worrying about diets isn’t something that crosses my mind anymore. Truth be told, I probably diet involuntarily these days, not by choice, but because I simply don’t eat much.
With all the food I prepare, one might think I’d be gaining pounds, but I’ve actually lost weight since Fran’s passing. I suppose it’s because cooking for one just isn’t the same. When I cooked for Fran, even with her teasing or questioning what I was making or how I was making it, I loved every bit of it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, every dish, every meal, every little moment shared over the stove.
Now I’m sitting on the deck again. The sun has moved to the front of the house, so the deck rests in shade. The sky is an incredible pale blue, brushed with only the faintest whispers of cloud. It’s another absolutely gorgeous day, and I’m grateful to have spent most of it outdoors, accomplishing things, breathing in the fresh air, feeling alive in the doing.
Before sitting down with my coffee, I put on some rice, thinking I might reheat the steak and vegetable teriyaki I made last night. For now, though, I’m perfectly content. There’s a quiet satisfaction in the air, the kind that settles in after a day of simple purpose. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe the sense of completion, or maybe it’s just the comfort of knowing that, for today at least, I did enough.
For Fran, whose love still fills the quiet hours...
November 5, 2025
Morning Reflections: Jazz, Legacy, and Love
It’s become part of my morning ritual, turning on the coffee pot and then reaching for the radio on the kitchen counter, tuning in to the smooth jazz station. I’ve been a jazz fan for as long as I can remember, going all the way back to my college days when most people thought I was a bit odd for listening to that kind of music.
Now, as the years have gone by, I’ve drifted away from the more progressive styles and found comfort in smooth jazz, the kind that’s easy on the ears and even easier on the soul. It takes me someplace else, a kind of quiet refuge that nothing else seems to reach.
Lately, I’ve noticed they’ve been playing a lot of Chuck Mangione since his passing. It’s bittersweet, hearing those familiar horn lines and realizing how often true recognition only comes after someone is gone. Don’t get me wrong, he had a remarkable career and was well known in his time, but it seems only now that his music plays almost hourly. It’s a reminder of how fleeting appreciation can be, how often we wait too long to fully value what someone gave to the world.
It’s the same, in a way, with the people in our own lives. I think about Fran often, how deeply she shaped who I am, even in the smallest ways. Like any couple, we had our moments of disagreement, but most of the time it was just playful banter, a way of saying, “I hear you” without ever losing sight of the love underneath.
Now that she’s gone, I see it all more clearly, how intertwined our lives were, how much of my own rhythm was set by hers. Just like a jazz melody, her presence filled the spaces between the notes of my life, and now those quiet moments feel a little different, yet still full of her music.
Morning Brew & Reflections—The Morning Light Show
It’s 6:28 AM, and as I stand by the back door, I can see that the morning light show has begun. Just as I suspected earlier, those scattered low clouds have arranged themselves into something magnificent, a living canvas painted across the horizon.
The sun, still hidden, sends its first whispers of gold and orange upward, and each passing minute brings another layer of brilliance. It’s moments like this that remind me how every sunrise, though familiar, carries its own quiet story, shaped by the clouds, the air, and maybe even the mood of the one watching.
There’s a certain comfort in these early scenes, coffee brewing, the soft notes of jazz drifting through the kitchen, and the first light of day stretching across the sky. It’s a peaceful rhythm, one that feels both grounding and eternal.
Morning Brew & Reflections—Whispers of the Changing Season
Standing at the doorway with the cool morning air spilling in, I can feel a strong breeze rising from the south, sweeping gently northward. It’s not constant, more like a wandering rhythm that comes and goes, not quite cold, but carrying that unmistakable edge of November. A heavy cool, I’d call it.
The large planter on the deck still stands in quiet defiance of the season, its tall center leaves bending and swaying like those bright, dancing balloons outside a car dealership. Each gust sets them moving wildly, yet somehow gracefully. Around the edges, the flowers remain vivid, reds, yellows, and oranges as bold as summer, a small miracle amid the changing winds.
I know the frost will arrive soon, as it always does, but for now this little patch of color holds its ground, offering one last burst of warmth before the season turns. There’s something poetic in that, resilience meeting inevitability, beauty holding on just a little longer.
Morning Brew & Reflections — Fleeting Light
As the sun broke just above the horizon, the sky transformed in an instant. The bottoms of the clouds turned the most incredible shade of pink, or something close to pink, glowing softly against the deepening blue. It was a sight both delicate and intense, as if the morning itself had paused to catch its breath.
But as quickly as it appeared, it began to fade. Within a minute, the vivid colors softened back into gray, leaving only a faint trace of what had been. It was beautiful while it lasted, breathtaking, really, and yet it reminded me, as I’ve learned so many times before, that nothing lasts forever.
All we truly keep are the memories, quiet, tender, and carried gently forward, much like the last traces of dawn after the sun has risen.
“Moments fade, but meaning lingers, carried gently in memory, where even the briefest light can live forever.”
Morning Brew & Reflections— Simple Surprises and the Scent of Bread
It’s 9:53 AM, and just as I was talking with my daughter on the phone, the doorbell rang. I couldn’t imagine who it might be, when I checked the camera, I saw it was my brother-in-law. To my surprise, he’d come by again, just a day after visiting, to return the containers that had held the food I gave him yesterday.
I had to laugh, I told him I’ve got more containers than I know what to do with. Every time I share food, they seem to make their way back all at once, leaving me with a small mountain of them and nowhere to store the lot.
Meanwhile, the first two loaves of bread had gone into the oven about 20 minutes before he arrived, and as we talked, the air began to fill with that unmistakable aroma, warm, rich, and comforting. There’s nothing quite like it. It’s the kind of scent that wraps itself around you and makes a house feel alive.
Just as the fragrance reached its sweetest note, the alarm went off, time to lift the lid and let the crust brown to perfection. A small, everyday moment, but one that feels quietly divine all the same.
“Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts.” — James Beard
With the day’s first light, until the next cup and sunrise…
Morning Brew & Reflections-Gray Skies, Warm Kitchen
The day drifted a long way from its radiant beginning. After the sunrise, the afternoon settled into overcast gray, low, heavy clouds, cooler air, and wind that never quite let up. Maybe it was the weather, or maybe because of it, I stayed inside and got things done, vacuumed upstairs and the downstairs family room and office, then steam-cleaned the tile in the kitchen, halls, and baths. I even made a dent in the clutter that’s been piling up in the family room and my office, those catch-alls for “I’ll deal with it later.”
At one point I sat to check email and woke with my face on the table, phone under my cheek, wondering what on earth happened. A pretty good laugh at myself, and a reminder that I don’t have the stamina I once did.
I’d planned to take soup and bread to my friend Bob, but my son-in-law called asking me to check on my daughter after her outpatient procedure. I called, offered to come sit with her, she said no, so I told her I’m only a phone call away.
Dinner was simple and perfect, a bowl of soup with this morning’s bread. The long, cold fermentation, about thirty hours, made a real difference in flavor and texture. Not that the old way was bad, but this one surprised me. When time allows, I’ll do it again. I only wish Fran were here to enjoy these new flavors with me.
“What we have once enjoyed we can never lose; all that we love deeply becomes a part of us.” — Helen Keller
In quiet gratitude for the day’s small mercies…
November 6, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections — First Light, Open Door
6:16 AM · Thursday, November 6
Moments ago the sky was ink-black, now the light show has begun. A ragged line of clouds dents the horizon, but above it the ceiling is mostly clear. Today’s forecast calls for sun and mid-50s, promising enough.
I’m sipping coffee with the back door propped open. The cool air spills in, sweeping out the stillness that’s settled indoors. I’ll let the morning tell me what’s next.
Morning Brew & Reflections — Venus at the Edge of Day
6:20 AM · Thursday, November 6
The skyline keeps brightening, a pale orange wash sliding upward. A single bright point hangs about a fist-and-a-half above the horizon, likely Venus, steady, not twinkling, fading as the day climbs. Clouds drift north to south, a cool-breath kind of motion. Could be a touch cooler than yesterday, but the light feels generous.
Coffee in hand, door still cracked open, I’m letting the fresh air sweep out the stale corners and wake the house.
the blue has taken over—what a calm, clean morning...
Morning Brew & Reflections — Blue-Washed Morning
Just after sunrise · Thursday, November 6
Venus has surrendered to daylight, its bright, steady glimmer washed away by a soft, widening blue. A narrow band of clouds drifts south along the horizon, to the north, nothing but clear sky. It’s brisk enough for more than a T-shirt, the fleece does the trick while the fresh air wakes the house. Pale gold at the horizon rising into cool blue; a thin southbound cloud band above dark tree silhouettes, including the old locust tree, where I see Fran watching over every day.
Sky note: Planets fade fast once the “blue hour” begins, scattered daylight outshines their steady light, which is why Venus can look bold one minute and vanish the next.
Morning Brew & Reflections — From Stillness to Motion
After sunrise · Thursday, November 6
The quiet hours have passed the baton. School buses sigh at the stop, parents roll by, and somewhere behind the trees the workday warms up, steel, diesel, and a long project waking at the school. It’s already been an eventful morning. What comes next is mine to steer.
I’ll choose a small, bright direction and let the day gather around it.
Morning Brew & Reflections — WEIGIRtarian Day
11:00 AM · Thursday, November 6
The house is breathing—door open, WEIGIRtarian (translates to What Everer I've Got In the Refrigerator) soup simmering, autumn slipping in. Grandma’s strudel floats up with the morning, dough stretched so thin you could read the paper beneath it. Phyllo will do nicely for that spirit with a lot less wrestling.
Autumn Soup Swap & a Strudel Lesson from Grandma
Thursday, November 6, 2025 • 6:22 PM
Today eased to a close the way a kitchen cools after a long simmer.
Bob rang around 11, asking if I’d be home, he wanted to drop something off. By noon my own pot of soup was finished, a generous batch, close to two gallons. I portioned it out, some for my daughter, some for Bob, and a few containers for me.
Maybe it’s the season, but while the soup bubbled I drifted to thoughts of my grandmother’s apple strudel. I’ve made it many times, and it’s always worth the work, but oh, the work. The dough has to be stretched until it’s nearly transparent, tissue-paper thin.
I remember being five or six, begging to help. She’d shoo me away: "You’ll put holes in it." When I was finally old enough, she taught me her test, slide a newspaper under the dough, when you can read the print through it, you’ve gone far enough. Baked, it turned shatter-light and incredible. I can still hear the faint crackle of that crust.
Bob arrived around 2. We traded warm things like townspeople in an old village, he handed me a container of his soup and chili. I sent him home with my soup, a loaf of bread, pumpkin-spice lady locks, and a couple coffee-cake muffins. We shared a bowl, a few slices, and a couple hours of easy conversation.
By 5:30 I was at my daughter’s door with soup and the apple strudel I’d just pulled from the oven. She’s feeling a bit better, not quite herself yet. Food can’t fix everything, but it can put a little weight on the good side of the scale.
Back home, the dishes were waiting like a small, clattering chorus. They’re now washed, dried, and tucked away. The news mumbled about snow on Sunday and a deep chill early next week, mid-20s overnight, highs in the 30s. I looked out at the huge plant on the back deck and admitted what I already knew, I can’t muscle a hundred pounds indoors anymore. Maybe that’s alright. Not everything needs saving, some seasons are meant to end so the next one can start.
For tonight, I’ll count the day as enough, a pot of soup shared, a strudel pulled thin as newsprint, and the comfort of giving what I can. Tomorrow will bring its own weather.
November 7, 2025
What a Way to Start the Day (and What Came After)
Friday, 3:44 PM
I woke the first time at 5:15 AM and slipped back under the covers. Around 6:30 a blade of light pushed past the blackout curtains, an unmistakable summons. I peeked between them and froze. The sky was ablaze.
I threw on jeans and a T-shirt, no jacket, socks, or shoes, and hurried to the deck into the cold. For a minute or two it felt like another planet, or like the James Webb telescope had routed its pictures through my backyard. The horizon poured orange and rose, violet drifted to blue, and the vine-wrapped locust trees stood like dark sentinels. I’ve seen many beautiful sunrises lately, but this one felt impossible in the best way. I’m grateful I woke when I did. What a beginning.
Not long after, a small kindness arrived: a simple text from Fran’s cousin’s daughter in Long Island, “Good morning. I’ve been thinking about you and hope you’re doing well.” I answered in kind and felt seen.
Out on the sidewalk a little later I caught Neal on his way to school, handed him a couple pieces of apple strudel, and showed him the photos. He doesn’t get the same view from his place, he’s down in a small valley and his house faces north/south, so we agreed how lucky it is to witness this from our back doors when others travel miles for a sky like that.
Then the weather turned. Clouds muscled in, rain followed, the temperature slid, and the house dimmed.
I made a batch of pumpkin-spice gobs mostly to use up the leftover lady-lock filling. They turned out tasty (too tasty), but the last thing I need right now is more sugar, so most of them will head to my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson, with a few for Neal and his brother.
By early afternoon the day had the weight of wet wool. Music helped, and a smooth-jazz video threw a scene up on the TV, sailboats slipping across a glassy sea under a sky that looked suspiciously like this morning’s sunrise. It felt like the day winking at me: See? It’s still here, just dressed different.
Later, the phone rang. The doctor from a week and a half ago called with test results. He wants more testing and a specialist visit “sooner rather than later.” I told him I’ve been trying to get that appointment for over ten days and keep hearing I’m “on the list.” Being on the list isn’t the same as being seen. He said he’d try to expedite it. I asked him to please do that, I don’t want to wait until anything gets worse.
All of it, the gray, the quiet, the limbo, tried to pull me into the old rabbit hole.
I can feel anger knocking around inside me, even as I know it won’t solve anything and won’t bring Fran back. People say it gets easier. I believe the “you never forget” part. The “easier” part is still a work in progress.
For now I’m keeping the lights gentle and warm in the living room and choosing a few small steps to keep the day from stalling completely.
What helped (and what I’ll try again)
A warm drink and a few slow breaths.
A ten-minute “anger walk” inside the house to shake the static out.
Sharing the sunrise photo with a friend (thanks, Neal).
Doing one helpful thing: checking in on my daughter who has not been feeling well.
One practical move: tomorrow morning I’ll call the doctors office early, ask for any provider, any location, request the same-day cancellation list, and stay on hold for a scheduler or supervisor if needed.
A small piece for Fran
The sky remembered how to blaze, and for a minute I believed again, not in endings, but in openings, not in absence, but in light that follows me into the room and waits.
Today would have been my mother's 100th birthday, may she rest in peace...
November 8, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections
Steam, Sunrise, and a Gentle Start
Saturday, November 8 — 6:10 AM (Kitchen)
Soundtrack: soft smooth jazz, Mood: hopeful, tender, Weather: cool air, a few long brush-stroke clouds on the horizon
I rose around 5:40 and carried my first cup of coffee into the kitchen, the little jumpstart I count on every day. The back door is open wide to the cool air. Just above the horizon, a few clouds stretch out like paint strokes, and above them it’s perfectly clear. It looks like an interesting sunrise is on the way, unexpected, given the forecast, and very welcome.
Steam curls off the coffee as the breeze slips in. The music is low. It’s a gentle beginning, and I’m grateful for it. I didn’t always stop to notice mornings like this, it’s strange, and a little sad, that it can take a lifetime to truly appreciate how magnificent simple things are. But I’m here for it now.
Last night, close to 10:30, my son-in-law texted to say he’d taken my daughter to the ER. She hasn’t been well these past few days, and they planned to keep her overnight for tests. I’m holding onto hope that all is well. She’s been through enough in her life, more than enough, and doesn’t deserve another health worry.
For now, I’ll keep watch with coffee in hand, let the day unfold one breath, one brush-stroke cloud at a time, and trust the sunrise to do what sunrises do, arrive, quietly and faithfully.
Morning Brew & Reflections — Waiting for the Fireworks
6:26 AM
The night is loosening its grip, inch by inch. A thin band of orange lays low on the horizon while the rest of the sky holds its breath. Coffee in hand, I’m struck, again by how this simple ritual has become a lifeline. It’s amazing how much meaning a sunrise can carry when you let it.
Sky notes
The air is milder than yesterday (so much for forecasts). Venus appeared first, hiding behind the trees to the right of the twin locusts, then climbing to about a hand’s width above the horizon, bright as a gem and fading as the morning blue deepened. Clouds drifted in from the north, quiet and steady, turning a clear dome into a soft gray ceiling. I kept waiting for the “fireworks,"that moment when sunlight catches the heavier cloud deck and everything blushes.
6:53–6:55 AM
For a minute it seemed the show might fizzle, just gray on gray. Then, almost on cue, a wash of color slid in along the southeast, the edges of the clouds lit up, a promise whispered rather than shouted. Funny how a few seconds can change the whole feeling of a morning.
7:03 AM
First light finally revealed itself below the tree line, a subtle orange ember glowing behind bare branches. Peaceful. Unhurried. Exactly what I needed.
Heart note
It’s been a lonely stretch this past day or two. This quiet, steady rise helps. I’m holding onto the calm and the small graces as the day begins.
7:26 AM — The Portal
The sun finally slid into the narrow gap between the twin locusts—my own little Stonehenge. For a moment I could see Fran’s face there, eyes just opening, the easy smile I still carry with me. Light pooled between the trunks like a doorway to something magnificent. I probably stared too long (seeing a few spots now), but I didn’t want to miss it. Another quiet proof that morning keeps its promises.
7:27 AM — Centered
For a breath the light stood perfectly between the locusts, a doorway lit from the other side. I whispered good morning to Fran and stepped into the day.
Kitchen Light — Afterglow
Returning inside, I turned toward the living room and saw sunlight pouring through the patio doors, catching the leaves of the plant on the dining table.
It’s a gift from a neighbor, brought to the funeral home, and it’s still thriving. The light on it this morning almost brought me to tears, a tender, joyful remembrance of Fran. The warmth of that beam feels like its own kind of comfort, matching the comfort she still brings me.
Midday & afternoon
After posting earlier, I made two more apple strudels. I called my daughter at the hospital, last night’s discomfort turned out to be stent-related. They repositioned it and she’s doing better, more tests were planned before release.
When I asked what she wanted for dinner, she said Chicken Parmesan. So I set to work, marinated and fried the chicken, baked two more loaves of bread (after several rises and folds), and rounded out the meal with four-cheese baked ziti, a garden salad, and pumpkin-spice gobs.
I delivered everything around 5:30 PM. We shared a lovely dinner, and I headed home about 6:30, a friendly reminder from the stack of dishes waiting for me that the day wasn’t quite done yet.
Closing note
Today held a lot, quiet sky-watching, a doorway of light, a house-brightening sunbeam, and the simple relief of seeing my daughter more comfortable. I’m tired, grateful, and hopeful for a good night and gentler tomorrows.
November 9, 2025
Dawn watch
(6:42–7:39 AM)
I stepped out expecting a muted morning, heavy gray stacked on the horizon. Then a thin orange thread lit the treeline and wisps of pink rose higher. By 6:59 the blaze softened to pale turquoise and silver, the show seemed over, yet the sun hadn’t cleared the horizon.
At 7:09 a chill rode the deck, wood-smoke drifted from a neighbor’s chimney, and clouds slid from south to east/north east. Coffee in hand, and a crisp slice of yesterday’s apple strudel, I kept vigil. Around 7:26 the horizon brightened again. Through the gap between the two tall, ivy-wrapped locusts the sun began to show, threading a gold seam through a rippled blue ceiling. By 7:39 the portal opened, the sun centered between the locust twins.
Above it, jet trails crossed the blue like chalk lines. They tugged at me, reminders of the trips Fran and I planned for retirement, the places we saved for and never reached. I stood between longing and gratitude, letting the beauty of this new day do its quiet work.
Deck epilogue
(8:00 AM)
The big planter on the railing is still hanging in, scarlet leaves and little blooms refusing the calendar. With a hard frost due tonight I’ll try to cover it, but I’m realistic. Seasons pass, and so do the small lives they bring, for now, the color keeps me company.
Evening—Jazz in Greensburg
(4:30–8:00 PM)
My friend Bob invited me to a jazz concert at the Presbyterian Church in Greensburg. I arrived early with a bundle of food: eight apple dumplings (still warm), two pieces of last night’s chicken Parm, about a quart of Italian pasta-and-seafood salad, a half-dozen pumpkin-spice treats, and an apple strudel. Their smiles said it all.
The concert began at 4:30. The church, beautiful architecture, handled the acoustics perfectly, every note carried. Afterward Bob and his wife insisted I stay for dinner. Good food, easy conversation, and before I left she clipped a generous handful of fresh sage for me. “Take it; frost will get it tonight.” Home by eight, I finished the day with half an apple dumpling and a steaming cup of black coffee.
Closing
Some mornings roar and others exhale, today did both, then drew two white lines across the sky to remind me of love, plans, and the miles that still shine inside the light.
Here’s That Rainy Day (Almost)
7:03–7:30 AM, Monday, November 10
Coffee went on at 5:45. I opened the patio door to a sky that looked sealed shut, heavy gray, low and unconvincing. I almost skipped the whole thing. The deck plants somehow made it through the night under my hasty sheet, 31° on the phone says their luck may run out if I don’t cover them better tonight.
Then the radio offered a wink, my jazz station slid into “Here’s That Rainy Day.” What are the odds? I had to laugh. Right on cue, thin seams opened along the horizon and a wash of pink and pale orange lifted through the cloud deck. The sun slipped into the split between my two locust trees, just a small bright patch, but enough to change the temperature of the morning.
Today feels like an indoor day, laundry, a little clearing in the family room and office, maybe something warm on the stove. Bob’s wife handed me a generous bunch of sage last night, and it’s calling my name. Whether it becomes a simple brown-butter-sage gnocchi or a big pot of white bean and sausage soup, I’ll let the day decide. For now, I’m content that a stubborn sky thought twice and let a little light through.
7:14 AM
A gray morning flirting with color. Thin seams open in the clouds and a faint wash of pink and pale orange lifts above the deck. I almost wrote the sunrise off, but the sky seems to be thinking twice. I’ll give it a few more minutes and see if the light decides to sing.
Snow, Sage & Sausage Soup — and Dumplings to Go
November 10, 2025 — Morning Brew & Reflections
The day began the way I like it best: quiet, slow, and golden. I lingered with the sunrise and a few generous cups of coffee, the house still and the sky doing its steady work beyond the patio door.
Sage, Sorted
With the kettle cooled and the light fully up, I turned to the heap of sage waiting on the counter and made order out of abundance, four tidy piles, small leaves (destemmed), large leaves (destemmed), stemmed sprigs to hang and dry, and a bundle of stems for the compost.
A Weather Interruption
While onions and company were getting prepped for soup, fat snowflakes started drifting past the glass. Not on the day’s agenda. The wind had tugged the cover half off the patio planter last night, so I grabbed a hat and jacket, tucked it in properly, and came back to the warmth of the kitchen.
Tuscan White Bean, Sausage & Sage Soup
Back to the stove. I’d already browned sweet Italian sausage and left a little of its flavor in the pan to welcome the vegetables. In went the sautéed veg, a can of diced tomatoes, a few cloves of garlic, and about 3 tablespoons of finely chopped fresh sage. Chicken stock first, then vegetable stock; a long, easy simmer. Near the end, a generous handful of fresh spinach melted into the pot. A hearty bowl, the kind that warms the belly and, somehow, the quieter corners of the heart.
As-cooked notes (for future me): brown sweet Italian sausage; sauté onion–carrot–celery in the drippings; add garlic, 1 can diced tomatoes, 3 Tbsp chopped sage; add chicken stock then vegetable stock; stir in cooked/drained cannellini; long simmer; finish with fresh spinach. Optional: mash a ladle of beans to thicken, Parmesan rind in the pot, lemon and olive oil at the bowl.
Afternoon Check-In (and Apple Dumplings)
After midday, my daughter called to check on me and see what I was up to. I reminded her there were four apple dumplings packaged and ready whenever someone could swing by. I also mentioned the Tuscan soup, she wasn’t exactly thrilled (apparently not a fan of most of the ingredients, aside from the stocks). Fair enough, not every pot speaks to every palate.
Smooth Jazz & a Catnap
With the soup finished, I settled into my living room chair, put on some smooth jazz, and drifted off for a quiet half hour. Exactly the kind of rest a gray, blustery day seems to invite.
Evening Pickup
At about 5:30 PM, the garage door hummed and in walked my daughter and son-in-law. They came for the dumplings and left with soup, too. I gave him a taste—he smiled, asked if I wanted him to grab a takeout container, and that was that. Even if my daughter won’t be having a bowl, I’m glad he’ll enjoy it.
Closing Note — 7:42 PM
The kitchen’s calm again, the snow has lost interest, and I’ve got just enough energy to make a couple of new blog entries before calling it a day. Grateful for warm soup, a tidy bundle of sage, dumplings packaged with love, a quick nap, and the simple blessing of family dropping by.
November 11th, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections — Four Months and a Day
6:53 AM · Tuesday
Outside:
24°F and biting. I cracked the deck door and the cold shocked me awake.
Hands wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee.
Sky: No sun yet, just a thin, pale-yellow band above the horizon, a quiet promise that may or may not show itself.
Today’s truth:
It’s been four months and one day since Fran left. I miss being beside her. I miss doing special things for her. I miss watching, caring, and catering for the person who needed so much and meant even more. Sometimes my thoughts tangle and the wrong words fall out, grief does that, scrambles the signals. At times the ache is so heavy I wonder how long I can keep carrying it. Then I breathe, sip warm coffee, and remember, I’m still here. The future is unwritten, and even with my own aches and pains, it could be worse. For this moment, I’m grateful for heat in my hands, a roof over me, and the love that still lives in my chest.
Locust tree: Most leaves gone now, but from certain angles I still see Fran’s features, sometimes a smile, sometimes the mark of worry, still there, still visible, depending on where I stand.
Planter on the deck: Still covered. I keep trying to save it, knowing winter will win eventually. Maybe this afternoon I’ll peek, give a little water if it asks, and cover it again.
Inside truth: Four months and a day. The loneliness is the loudest thing in the room. Fran told me so many times, “You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone.” She was right. I won’t go down the spiral today, I’ll let the ache be what it is, and still move one small step at a time.
Four months and a day, and the loneliness is the loudest thing in the room. We often talked about going south for the winter, life wouldn’t let us. I could go now, but the compass has changed, grief would travel with me. For today, I’ll accept what is, keep the spiral at bay, and do the next small, kind thing.
Blue Between the Clouds
Just after noon the sky shifted, still plenty of cloud, but more blue than gray, and a clean winter light swept the yard. The vine draped trees stood like tall sentries while the wind hustled the sky along. Inside, the oven hummed and the house smelled of butter, sage, and potato, little roses unfurling as the clouds did the same. Maybe today won’t be a total loss after all, just enough brightness to season the afternoon.
The sky kept working at it, clouds thinning, blue widening, the hill line brightening by degrees. Inside, butter and sage perfumed the kitchen; outside, the vine-tall sentries watched a patchwork sky turn hopeful, just a slow unfurling, like roses in the oven.
The day brightened by degrees, clouds loosening, blue widening, silhouettes sharpening along the ridge. Inside, butter and sage lifted from the oven, outside, the sky practiced hope, just a quiet opening.
The sky loosened and the day followed, gray giving way to blue in slow, kind increments. Bob called with kind words, the oven breathed butter and sage, and the house felt less empty for a while. Potato roses unfurled as the clouds did the same. Some days don’t flip with a switch, they soften, the way light does when it remembers how to be warm.
Wind herds the clouds on,
sage, butter, and gratitude
steady the kitchen.
Potato Roses, Sage, and a Small Turning
By mid-morning the gray wouldn’t budge, so I went to the kitchen and gave my hands a job. Apples could wait; today wanted roses, made of potatoes. I shaved ribbons on the mandolin, bathed them in butter, garlic, Parmesan, and a whisper of sage, rosemary, and thyme, then tucked the “petals” into a muffin tin. While they baked, the clouds finally broke, blue shouldering through.
By late afternoon my daughter came by, she called her husband at work, in the intermediate school just down the street and told him I had invited him and his lovely bride, my daughter, for dinner today.
Pork chops and half a tenderloin, rubbed with kosher salt, lemon pepper, and fresh sage, seared, finished gently, and rested. A quick pan sauce from the drippings, butter, white wine, garlic, and more sage. We ate, we talked, we had apple strudel and coffee. The day didn’t change its mind entirely, but around our plates, it softened.
What Fran Would’ve Said
At dinner we laughed about what Fran would’ve thought of today’s menu.
She would’ve enjoyed every bite, and still tilted her head with that familiar smile, “Something’s missing… maybe a little pasta?” She never worried about my presentation obsessions, she just wanted it to taste good. It did. We ate, told stories, and let the kitchen be a place where love is measured in forkfuls, not garnishes.
God bless her...
November 12, 2025
Morning Brew & Reflections
6:44–6:49 AM
After pouring a hot cup of coffee, I gazed through the patio doors into nothing but gray, overcast, cloudy, dismal. Not a trace of color on the horizon, only a lighter shade of gray where sunrise should be. The coffee tastes especially good today, I did nothing different, yet somehow it’s more satisfying.
Last night I fell asleep in my chair around 11:00 PM and woke groggy at 12:30. As my eyes adjusted, I found myself scanning the room for Fran, wondering where she could be, before the familiar realization returned, she’s gone from my sight, not from my life. You’d think by now the reflex would fade. It hasn’t.
It’s nearly mid-November in Western Pennsylvania. Cloud cover is the norm, not the exception. I keep hoping to start each day with an incredible sunrise, it’s becoming obvious that won’t happen today. Still, the horizon is lightning, no color yet, just a paler gray. Maybe that’s enough for this morning, a good cup of coffee, a breath, and the quiet faith that color returns in its own time.
gray upon gray sky
steam rises from my coffee—
love keeps its color
Edinboro Lake, 1971 — The Morning After
Today was gray and heavy, but two photographs warmed the room, the morning after I proposed to Fran. We drove out to Edinboro Lake, braved the snow and the mist, and let a friend with a camera make a few mementos. We were young and clueless and entirely certain. The clouds hung low, the water was quiet, and everything important had already been decided. Some moments don’t fade, they just keep developing.
The Yes We Could Afford
We started with pockets full of nothing, tuition bills, hand-me-down coats, snow settling in our hair like quiet advice. All we owned was a word: yes, spoken at a lake, in a college town, when the world was gray and still said go.
We learned to measure joy by teaspoon, rent paid, gas in the tank, a warm loaf, a second hand table that seated hope. Creature comforts could wait, we saved for a brighter day, and in the waiting, love did its work.
Two children arrived like two new seasons. We grew a life that kept them warm, patched knees, science fairs, Sunday sauce, holidays made from thrift and laughter. Five grandchildren later, the house glowed with little feet and loud tomorrows.
Not every year was easy. We argued, we forgave, we kept the list short. Happiness came often, not always, and “mostly” proved to be plenty. Time kept changing the price of everything except kindness, which stayed affordable.
Then came the long winter of pain, the not-yet-bride turned veteran of suffering, each day a hill, each night a vigil, until mercy said, rest now. The room got quiet, and with it I, the groom still standing where the vows were said.
I wake alone to overcast mornings. But the promise is not gone. It breathes in photographs, in the steam of coffee, in the way grandchildren laugh like small bells, in the echo of that first yes that brought us the whole of our life.
If love is wealth, we died rich. If love is a road, we walked it together, and if love is a light, it keeps burning, even on gray days, even with tears, a faithful lamp in the window, guiding me home to you.
We had debt and winter coats,
and one word we could afford: yes.
We traded comforts for a brighter day,
and the day arrived, two children, five radiant grands,
a house stitched with soup and forgiveness.
The last miles were hard,
mercy came.
I’m left with the lamp we lit together
and it still shines.
From almost nothing but yes,
we built a life that keeps on living.
November 13, 2025
Horizon on Fire
It’s 6:29 AM and I’ve just poured my first cup of coffee. Standing at the patio door, I’m greeted by a sky without a single trace of cloud. I’m not sure how dramatic the light show will be today, but it already feels like a good beginning.
Along the horizon there’s a band of deep, glowing orange, slowly climbing into soft yellows and then into pale blues that darken as they rise higher into the sky. It almost looks as if the horizon itself is on fire and the flame is quietly spreading upward, warming the cold edges of the morning.
By 6:41 AM, the color has opened up even more. The orange line has brightened, the blues have deepened, and the whole sky feels wider and more awake. Today’s sunrise is so much more promising than yesterday’s, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s a really good thing.
A little later, I notice something I’d missed at first, the old oak at the back edge of the yard, the one I let grow more than twenty-five years ago, is the only tree along the horizon still holding onto any real amount of leaves. Every other tree has surrendered almost everything to the ground. It’s yet another reminder of what’s coming. But this morning, with the sky washed in clear light and the air feeling gentler than it has in days, I choose to see it differently. That stubborn oak, still dressed for autumn while the others stand bare, feels like a small defiance against the gray, rainy, miserable days we’ve just come through.
A little later, I look up and see a single jet slicing across the deep blue morning sky, its trail catching the same golden light that’s just beginning to touch the horizon. Once again, the jet stream pulls my thoughts south, toward warmer, brighter places I imagine those passengers heading.
Going south for the winter was something Fran and I talked about more than once. We pictured ourselves escaping the cold together, trading icy mornings for soft, warm evenings and a different kind of light. We never got the chance. Now, when I watch those planes carve their way across the sky, it feels like watching other people fly off into the life we were supposed to have.
These are the moments that haunt me, the reminders of how things were meant to be, how we should be enjoying the rest of our lives side by side. Instead, I stand here alone with my coffee and my camera, holding on to memories and the ache of what could have been.
At 7:15 AM the old haymaker finally edges above the horizon. In a few minutes it will be centered between the two tall locust trees, what I’ve come to call the portal, the gateway, the place where I picture Fran’s face smiling down at me. This morning, the light there feels gentle and kind, and I choose to believe she’s smiling. That thought brings a small, steady comfort.
By 7:30 AM, the sun is finally centered between the two old locust trees, right in the heart of the portal. In that bright circle of light, I see her face, Fran’s smile traced out by a single curved branch in the canopy of the left-hand tree.
I can’t help but think back to when she was still here and I’d be out with my camera, absolutely entranced by whatever I was photographing. She used to shake her head and tell me I must be from another planet, that my imagination was getting the best of me and I was losing touch with reality. Then she’d smile and add, “But that’s OK, just don’t get carried away with it.”
This morning, standing at the window with the sun blazing through the portal, I decide to let myself get carried away just a little, for her.
As the sunrise show nears its end, my attention shifts from the sky back to the deck. The large planter between the two chairs has clearly reached the end of its season. The leaves hang tired and defeated, the blooms spent.
When I look down, I notice splashes of deep red scattered across the deck boards, as if there had been some quiet, ritual sacrifice in the night, a bloodletting no one witnessed. It’s beautiful and unsettling at the same time. One more undeniable sign that the bitter cold is standing right at my doorstep.
Entry Two – Evening
An Unexpected Light Show
It’s 5:01 PM and I’ve just come back from what was supposed to be a short, brisk walk to clear my head. The “brisk” part proved accurate. Even while I was moving, the cold dug in. What was meant to be a quick out-and-back turned into about 1.2 miles, and by the time I was headed home toward the back of my house, I could feel the chill settling into my hands and face.
Years ago, I walked this same route regularly, often 3 or 4 miles each evening. Those walks usually happened in warmer weather, when the sun set farther to the west. Back then, the tree canopies, hillsides, and the general clutter of the landscape blocked most of the sunset. I rarely saw anything more than a bit of fading light between branches.
Now it’s nearly mid-November. In years past, I probably wouldn’t have been out walking at this hour at all. But today I was, and because the sun has shifted to its late-autumn path, I stumbled onto something I never realized I could see from here.
The sunset was almost as amazing as this morning’s sunrise. For a little while, the sky turned into a full-blown light show.
The western sky opened up in layers. High above, a deep, rich blue. Cutting across it, one thin contrail, like someone took a piece of chalk and drew a line across a blackboard. Below that, clouds feathered and raked across the horizon, catching the last of the sun’s glow and turning it into streaks of gold and soft orange.
I would’ve stayed longer and taken far more photographs, but my hands were freezing. No gloves, just that light jacket, poor planning on my part. Eventually, practicality won out and I headed back to the house.
Once inside, I poured a cup of coffee, popped it into the microwave, not because I was eager for a drink, but because I needed something warm to wrap my fingers around. When it was hot enough, I took the cup back outside, holding it more like a hand-warmer than a beverage, and returned to the very spot where the sky was finishing its evening performance.
From that hill, I watched the sun slide down behind two tall locust trees, the portal, like sentries guarding the edge of the day. Their dark silhouettes stood against the glowing sky, and for a brief moment I could feel Fran beside me again, the way she used to be when we’d share something simple but beautiful.
Two people, saying almost nothing, just soaking in what nature had to offer.
The most beautiful part of the evening was that feeling, Fran standing there sharing the view. The saddest part was knowing that, for now, I can only imagine it.
Moments like that make my heart incredibly heavy and my eyes misty. But I’m starting to understand that this is the cost of loving someone so deeply, even a November sunset, seen from the back of my own yard, is enough to bring her rushing back into the center of the moment.
This morning began with a sunrise through the portal. The day closes with a sunset over the hill. Two separate entries, but one continuous thread, light, memory, and the quiet hope that she’s still walking beside me, just beyond what my eyes can see.
November 14, 2025
It’s 6:26 AM on Friday, November 14.
There’s a distinct chill in the air, but not as cold as it’s been recently. Along the horizon, the sky is showing its first hint of light, a soft, pale orange glow, and Venus hangs about 5° above the eastern edge like a tiny lantern. The tangerine band at the horizon rises into yellow, then fades into a gentle pale blue before giving way to what remains of the night sky. For now it all feels quiet, tentative, and full of possibility. We shall see.
It’s now 6:46 AM and the sky is changing its mind. The clouds are thickening overhead, sliding from south to northeast in slow, steady bands. It feels like they might be the opening act for a day much grayer than yesterday, though I haven’t checked a forecast yet, just watching, wondering, and feeling that small edge of concern that comes with not knowing what’s on the way.
Even so, the light show along the horizon hasn’t surrendered. The orange and gold are still burning just above the treeline, threading between the bare branches and those tall, tangled trunks. For the moment, that’s enough. I’m here, I’m seeing it, and I’m grateful to be standing in the chill watching another morning unfold.
7:31 AM. The sun has finally slipped into place, centered neatly between the two tall locust trees, my familiar portal. It feels like a quiet tap on the shoulder, a gentle nudge that says, “Alright, it’s time now.” Time to step away from the doorway, from the glow and the memories, and see what this new day has in mind.
What it will bring, I don’t yet know. For the moment, it’s enough to have stood here, watched the light find its mark, and let it whisper that I’m still here too, ready, more or less, to begin again.
The sun has slipped just below the portal now, leaving a wide band of glowing yellow stretched across the horizon. The locust trees stand in dark silhouette, like quiet brushstrokes against the fading light, while the clouds above soften into layers of gray and faint lavender.
The show is over for this morning, but the echo of it lingers, a reminder that even on a muted, overcast day, there was a moment when the sky opened, the light poured through the doorway, and I was there to see it.
Evening Reflections: Bracing for Christmas
It’s currently 6:28 PM, and looking back over the day, it feels like I didn’t accomplish much of anything beyond watching the sunrise this morning.
After the sky finished its morning light show, the clouds rolled in and settled for the day. The sky turned gray, the air stayed cool, and the mood of the weather matched my own lack of motivation. It just wasn’t the kind of day that invited much movement.
I put on the History Channel for a while, half watching and half dozing off in my chair. At some point in the early afternoon, around 2 PM, I decided I should at least do something, so I turned to one of my old standbys: bread.
I prepped the dough for tomorrow, working through the familiar motions. After the initial mixing, I let it rise for about 30 minutes, then uncovered it, folded it over itself four times, recovered it, and repeated the process about a half hour later. Now the dough is tucked into the back of the refrigerator, ready for a slow overnight ferment, maybe longer, depending on what tomorrow brings and what I manage to get done.
Around 4 PM, I talked with my daughter for about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes.
During our conversation, she told me she’d spoken with her brother, my son in North Carolina. He’s not planning on coming home for Christmas this year. I have mixed emotions about that. On one hand, I completely understand how hard it is to travel long distances with a large family, especially over the holidays. I’ve been in that position myself and know the stress and logistics involved. On the other hand, this will be the first major holiday I’ll have to face without my beloved Fran. Knowing that my son and his family won’t be here adds another layer of emptiness to a day that already feels like a mountain.
Part of me wonders if I’m setting myself up for failure by thinking about all of this a month in advance. But the truth is, I’ve been bracing for the coming winter for quite some time now. The shorter days, the cold, the memories of other winters when Fran was still here, they’ve all been quietly building in the background.
Hearing that my son won’t be home only amplifies the feeling that this Christmas will be something very different, and most likely much more difficult. I told my daughter several times that I have no desire whatsoever to celebrate Christmas this year. She insists that we keep going with the traditions we built over the years, even though Fran is no longer here to share them.
Maybe, over the next few weeks, my attitude will soften or shift. Maybe it won’t. Right now, I honestly can’t see that happening. At this particular moment, it’s been a deeply depressing day, and thinking about the holidays ahead only seems to pull me further down.
So for tonight, I think it’s best to call it a day. I’ll leave the dough to quietly rise in the refrigerator and hope that, in some small way, I can find a way to come to terms with the things that are quickly heading my way.
November 15, 2025
It’s 6:41 AM on Saturday, November 15, and the sky is a solid sheet of slate gray. On most mornings, there’s at least a faint hint of light at the horizon by now, a thin line of orange or gold suggesting the day ahead. Today there is none.
There’s barely enough light to separate clouds from sky. Everything feels like one heavy, indistinct mass, almost total darkness with very little definition and not a trace of color anywhere.
Weather-wise, today isn’t looking very promising. Still, there’s always the possibility that something else, a phone call, a small accomplishment, a good cup of coffee, a kind word, might turn things around. For now, all I can do is wait and see what this gray morning decides to become.
It’s now 7:00 AM, and any hope for a light show this morning is still nowhere to be found. The sky has shifted from a deep slate gray to a paler shade, and the clouds are at least a little more defined now, but it still feels like one heavy, unbroken mass overhead.
The forecast is calling for “partly cloudy,” but standing here, looking out at this solid blanket of gray, I have to wonder when the “partly” plans to show up. There isn’t the slightest hint of sunlight, just a soft, dull glow that barely lifts the scene out of darkness.
It’s not raining at the moment, but it clearly did earlier. The deck boards and the furniture out back are wet enough that it’s obviously more than just morning dew. The air, though cool, feels a bit milder than it has the past few days, and for now that slight warmth may be the only highlight of this very unimpressive, non-existent sunrise.
So I’ll turn back toward the kitchen, start working on my third cup of coffee, and give the sky a little more time. Maybe, if it feels generous, the sun will decide to make a brief appearance before the morning slips away.
I just peeked into the refrigerator to check on the bread dough I prepared yesterday, and the activity in that container is far more impressive than anything happening out at the horizon this morning.
Even in the cold, the yeast has been hard at work. The fermentation has built up so much energy it actually popped the lid off a very well sealed Tupperware container. Later on, I’ll take the dough out, let it slowly come up to room temperature, then portion it into loaves and set them aside for their final rise.
When they’re ready, I’ll slide them into the oven and let the gentle warmth work its magic, something alive, growing, and transforming, even on a gray morning when the sky can’t seem to manage much of anything at all.
It’s currently 8:11 AM and the sun has finally managed to push its way through the clouds. Nothing spectacular, no blazing light show, but after this morning’s solid wall of gray it feels like a small blessing, a soft, hazy glow hanging just to the side of the portal trees.
In the time it took for the sun to show up, my stomach started making its own demands. I fried up the leftover potato skins from the potato roses, added some onions and seasoning, cracked in a couple of fresh eggs, and tucked in a few slices of ham. I finished it off with a couple of slices of my homemade bread from the pantry. Far more breakfast than I normally eat, if I eat anything at all in the morning, but it was deeply satisfying.
Now, of course, there’s a stack of dishes waiting for me, but on a gray day like this, what else do I really have to do? Besides, I still need to pull the bread dough from the refrigerator, shape it into individual loaves, and let it make its final rise. I keep catching myself staring out the window at that shy little sun, and then gently reminding myself, quit daydreaming and get on with the work at hand.
It’s 8:20 AM, and even though the pots, pans, dishes, and that bread, still fermenting patiently in the refrigerator, are all calling my name, I’m still planted by the open patio door, letting the cool fresh air drift in.
I stand here gazing at a sunrise that is slowly turning more hopeful, quietly suggesting that this day might turn out better than I first expected. The light is soft, gently working its way through the clouds, and the sky that felt so heavy and unforgiving an hour or two ago is starting to loosen its grip.
I’ll gladly take this version of the morning. It’s already miles better than the slate gray sky that greeted me earlier.
It’s amazing what a single hour can do.
The same sky that greeted me with solid slate gray is now slowly opening up, soft blue washing in from the upper right, pale gold pooling around the sun as it hangs just off the portal trees. The tall, tangled trunks stand in silhouette, like quiet sentries framing that small but determined burst of light.
It’s still not a dramatic, fiery sunrise, but it is a clear turning, subtle color replacing flat gray, a gentle reassurance that the day isn’t quite as bleak as it first appeared.
From slate and shadow to blue and gold… not a bad way for the morning to gently change its mind.
Saturday, 8:42 AM – Breakfast for One
I just finished washing the pots, pans, and dishes from the breakfast I made a little while ago. Somewhere between scrubbing the skillet and drying the plates, it hit me: I can’t remember the last time I cooked a full breakfast just for myself since Fran passed.
I’ve made breakfast on a few occasions when my daughter, son-in-law, and grandson were here early. But for me alone? Most mornings it’s either a bowl of cereal, or a piece of toast, and coffee, nothing that would qualify as a “real” breakfast.
Before Fran’s passing, breakfast used to be one of my favorite rituals. Pancakes, French toast, eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, potatoes, sometimes all of the above folded into a quiche.
Fran was never a big breakfast eater, and near the end she could barely manage a few bites. Still, sharing that time together mattered.
Today was different. I cooked, plated the food on a real breakfast plate, sat at the table, and actually ate like a person who still lives here. Not standing at the counter. Not grabbing something on the run. Sitting down.
I’m wondering if this is a small step toward something, maybe not “back” to how things were, because that’s impossible, but at least away from the rut I’ve been stuck in. Since Fran died, I rarely sit at the table for dinner. Most nights it’s a paper plate at the counter, or eating directly from the pot or pan I prepared the food in, or directly from the container I had stored, then warmed it in, just getting it over with.
Lately, though, there have been a few evenings where I’ve set a real place setting for myself and eaten at the table. Tiny changes, but changes all the same.
Maybe my right brain is quietly reminding my left that life does, somehow, go on, and that I don’t have to live the rest of it standing at the kitchen counter.
A letter to Fran
Dearest Fran,
It’s 8:42 AM on a Saturday, and I just finished cleaning up from breakfast. A real breakfast, potatoes, eggs, ham, and a couple of slices of my bread, all on an actual plate.
Somewhere between the sink and the dish towel, I realized I can’t remember the last time I went to that kind of trouble just for myself, since you’ve been gone.
I’ve cooked breakfast like that when our daughter, son-in-law, and grandson were here early. But for me alone? Usually it’s just cereal or toast and coffee, more often than not, just coffee. Quick, simple, and over with.
Do you remember how much I used to love making breakfast? Pancakes piled high, French toast, bacon, sausage, potatoes, and sometimes everything tucked into one of my quiches. You’d nibble at a little, never as hungry as I was, and near the end sometimes you could barely eat at all. Still, I kept cooking. It felt like one of the ways I could still take care of you.
Since you been gone, I’ve mostly been eating on paper plates, standing at the counter. Somehow it felt wrong to sit at the table without you there.
In the last couple of weeks, there have been a few nights when I’ve actually sat down again with real dishes, like an actual grown-up human being. This morning, sitting at the table with my breakfast in front of me, I wondered if maybe this is what you’d want, to see me feeding myself properly, not just going through the motions.
I know life will never be the same without you. But maybe today’s breakfast was a small sign that some part of me remembers how to live, not just exist.
Loving You, Always and All Ways,
Tony
Bread Against the Gray
The time is 4:07 PM. About fifteen minutes ago, I pulled the finished loaves from the oven, and the whole house is now wrapped in that rich, warm smell of fresh bread. It’s the kind of aroma that feels almost sacred, simple ingredients turned into something that feeds both stomach and spirit. Once again, this recipe hasn’t failed me in texture, taste, or appearance.
Outside, though, the day has gone in the opposite direction. After a sunrise that managed to redeem itself, the sky slid back into a solid sheet of slate gray. The sun has completely disappeared, and it’s so dark that I need to turn lights on inside the house as if it were already nighttime.
Still, a few slices of warm bread, generously buttered, have done a lot to redeem an otherwise colorless day. If the sky insists on being dull and heavy, at least the kitchen has decided to be bright.
Baker’s Note:
Before baking the loaves, I brushed them lightly with an egg wash and sprinkled the tops with a mix of kosher salt, garlic salt, dried onion flakes, and sesame seeds. It’s the first time I’ve tried this combination, and I was pleasantly surprised by how much flavor and texture it added. I’m curious to see what others think, some may prefer their bread plain, and that’s fine too. With the amount of bread I’ve been baking lately, I can easily do both.
Text Messages and Soup Pots
While I was waiting for the bread to finish baking, I got a text from my wife’s cousin in Ohio, the one whose wife is struggling so much with MS right now. He told me he was going to try making the sausage, sage, vegetable, and bean soup I made the other day.
We ended up texting back and forth for the better part of an hour. He keeps insisting he’s a terrible cook, and I keep telling him that if he can read and tie his shoes, he can make that soup. It’s a very forgiving recipe, and besides, there’s something comforting about having a pot of soup simmering when life feels anything but simple.
I offered to send him the bread recipe too, but he said he isn’t quite ready for that challenge yet—maybe later, he said.
We shall see.
Anyone that reads this blog is obviously aware of the fact that for some time now I have been writing a lot about making homemade bread. For those of you who are currently grieving, or/not, I can tell you, for me at least, that cooking and or baking has been very therapeutic. I find that it creates a healthy diversion that forces me to think about something else, aside from the grief that plagues me.
On that note, I'm now going to provide the recipe for the rustic Italian bread, that I continue to have great success with:
Rustic Italian Bread — “Best of Both Worlds” Version
Ingredients
(Yields one medium-large loaf — about 1½ lb / 700 g)
Ingredient | Weight / Volume |
Bread flour (or a mix of bread + all-purpose) | 350 g (≈ 2⅔ cups) |
Water, lukewarm (about 100-105 °F / 38-40 °C) | 260 g (≈ 1⅛ cups) — hydration ~74% |
Instant yeast | ¼ tsp (≈ 1 g) |
Salt | 8 g (≈ 1½ tsp) |
Olive oil | 15 g (≈ 1 Tbsp) |
(Optional) A little sugar or honey | 5 g (≈ 1 tsp) — helps with browning and yeast activity |
Notes on ingredient choices: Use bread flour or a flour with higher protein for better gluten structure. The olive oil softens slightly and improves handling, but is mild enough that it won't ruin the crisp crust if you bake it right. The hydration (water/flour ratio) is on the higher side (about 74%) — that's what helps give a more open, soft interior.
Method / Instructions
Mix & Autolyse
In a large bowl, mix the flour + water (reserve about 10 g water to help with yeast later).
Cover and let rest (autolyse) for 30 minutes.
After resting, sprinkle yeast and salt over the dough, then drizzle olive oil and (if using) the sugar/honey. Fold in so that everything is incorporated.
Bulk Fermentation + Stretch & Folds
Cover the dough and let it ferment for about 2 hours at room temperature (≈70–75°F / 21–24°C).
During the first 60–90 minutes, do 3 sets of stretch & folds, spaced ~20-25 minutes apart: pick up one side of the dough, stretch it upward, fold it over, turn the bowl, repeat with other sides. This builds strength without heavy kneading.
After the folds, allow the dough to rest undisturbed until it’s about doubled in volume (should show bubbles on surface, feel airy).
Shape + Second Rise
Turn the dough gently onto a lightly floured surface. Shape it into a round or an oval (“batard”) — be gentle so you don’t knock out too much air.
Place it (seam-side down) into a floured banneton or bowl lined with a floured tea towel (seam-side up).
Cover and let it rise (proof) for 45–60 minutes, until it’s puffy (but not overproofed — you don’t want it to collapse).
Preheat & Prepare for Baking
Meanwhile, preheat your oven to 475-500 °F (245-260 °C) with a Dutch oven (or heavy lidded pot) inside. Let it heat for at least 30 minutes.
If you don’t have a Dutch oven, use a baking stone or an inverted baking sheet, and have a separate pan you can pour water into for steam.
Bake with Steam / Covered + Open
Once preheated, carefully turn your dough (seam-side up) into the hot Dutch oven.
Cover with lid and bake for 20 minutes (this traps steam, ensures good oven spring, and helps crust formation).
After 20 minutes, remove the lid, lower oven to 450 °F (230 °C), and bake for another 15–20 minutes until deep golden brown.
(Optional trick: in the last 5 minutes, you can crack the oven door slightly to let out excess moisture — this helps dry the crust.)
Cooling
Remove from oven and let cool completely (on a rack) before slicing. Cooling helps set the structure and keeps the crumb from becoming gummy.
Tips & Tweaks for Improvement
Steam is critical. If you’re not using a Dutch oven, spray water into the oven or have a tray of water to create humidity for the first 10 minutes.
Bake slightly darker. The crust won’t be true “hard” but letting it get a bit deeper golden will help with crunch.
Longer cold fermentation. If you have time, after mixing and folding, you can retard (put in fridge) the dough overnight (8–12 hours). That slow ferment deepens flavor and often improves texture.
Check your flour. Sometimes your flour’s absorption changes — if the dough feels too stiff, add a few grams of water; too slack, add a little more flour.
Oven calibration. Make sure your oven is accurate; an oven thermometer helps a lot.
Don’t rush cooling. If you slice too early, the crumb will be moist or gummy.
More to Come...
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