Commerce. The bane of all artists. The pit in which they must slog. How to do what you love and make a living. It’s a conundrum. Early in my life, I took my love of words into the world of in-house publications in the oilfield, traveled through the world of book publishing, and eventually ended up editing drilling and completion manuals. It wasn’t Dickens, but it raised three kids and gave my family a good life. Early on, I tried my hand at science fiction on the side and did some magazine freelancing, but eventually they slid away.

Wow. I just had a moment. Prepared my coffee. Hit brew. Stood looking out the window. Realized there was no cup. Whoops! Inexplicable madness? Nope. Distracted. I realized I’d made an error setting up a product in my storefront, and each cup ordered was costing me money. Not a ton, but enough. I’m not looking to become an oligarch with these mugs, I just want to publish a book. I’ve been busy this morning making corrections.

I’m in an odd spot. I write this blog almost every day. And it’s free. And I feel like I know almost all of my readers, and I consider them to be my friends. This happened because the first posts were basically Facebook posts. Then Facebook decided to add a blog type feature, and I started using it. Then they cancelled it, and I moved to an independent website, GatewoodPress.com, set up a business page on Facebook, and voila, the blog continued to appear on Facebook. I did this to facilitate the publication of my book in 2021, The Caregiver’s Tales: The Long Goodbye, about my wife’s dementia.

It’s a lovely day in the neighborhood. It was windy yesterday and not so lovely. But it’s still now, and cool and that feels good. Springlike. Our need for rain continues, but I am beginning to despair. We have the month of May and most of June before the official start of summer. I’m afraid, however, we’re going to be in for a goodly stretch of hot and dry with only occasional showers. We need a monsoon.

The stage lights have dimmed. The building is empty. The show is over. My tour is done. It was fun. It started in Austin and ended in New Braunfels. Two stops. Two stages. Two days. There were no trucks, no crew, no dancers. It was just me and my guitar and my kit bag. I sang my songs to mostly appreciative audiences. It should be noted there were other people on the bill at every stop, so I wasn’t ever close to headlining. Still, there I was. On tour.

Well, the big couch is gone. Off to a place of charitable giving where I hope a family will find a place for it. It was made by Bassett so I think there are a lot of years left in it. Meanwhile, my front room looks airy and open as planned. Next up will be the old entertainment center. It’s sort of sectional, which means the top, housing the TV, can come off. The TV will go on the wall. The bottom will continue holding my electronics and the top will get the turntable and pictures.

I live in a small town. And you would think it quiet. But it’s not. A major highway runs through my town. It is nearby. About 325 feet at its closest point.  And we live between two major cities and places where those people want to go. Their tires and big trucks make a lot of noise. It’s mostly quiet at night, but it starts to hum at first light. One upshot, and this is something of a positive, is the bird song is loud because they have to compete with the cars, and we have plenty of birds.

The brush pile is gone, hauled away in a big sixteen foot trailer with four sides. A lone man with a skid-steer did the job. He also hauled away some old pallets, the skeletal remains of mulch pits from the days when we gardened in that area. And he also took the old landscape cloth I dug up last week in the front yard. Then he tidied up the grounds before leaving. It’s nice to have that area cleaned. Now I have to figure out a plan for going forward because brush is inevitable and I know more will come.

Big day, today. My brush pile is going away. Unfortunately, it is probably home to critters. I guess you might consider this a version of gentrification. We own the land and would like to use it as something other than a home for mice, snakes, scorpions, and whatever else might find a big brush pile an appealing place to live. It will be interesting to see what departs. Of course, whatever leaves also might be too small for us to notice, but that’s just the way of the world.

Anatomy of rain on a metal roof. I’ve had two styles of metal roof while living in the Hill Country. My first roof was screw-down panels, a fairly typical old style roof. It was replaced recently by a standing seam roof with no exposed screws. Falling rain sounds essentially the same on both styles, a lovely patter of falling water on tin. The difference slips in when the rain is soft and the water gathers on the roof before sliding to the ground.

I’m in a tiny, personal groove. I cleaned my gutters yesterday, and put plants in the ground. It rained last night, right on cue. My rain barrels are full, and the new plants got a good soaking. More rain is promised, and as a bonus, it’s cool outside. For the plant fans, the new additions are Gregg’s Mist Flower, Catmint Walkers Low, and Upright Rosemary. All have proven to do well in my soil so I decided to add a few more.

I lost a shovel last month which seems a hard thing to do until you lose the shovel and it’s lost and impossible to find. I have no idea what went into the losing of the shovel. We had it. Then we didn’t. I looked everywhere. High and low. It was nowhere to be found. I was perplexed. In the past I would have blamed the kids, and even though my son uses my tools he usually knows where he’s put them. In the case of the shovel, he had no idea where it had gone.

Yesterday was a day where all the tumblers fell into place, and I unlocked a little joy. I found a letter I needed in my junk email. The city approved my replat. I scheduled my new HVAC service. I found a guy to remove my brush pile, which is taller than me and has more than brush in it, and looked scary to burn. And I watched a group of starlings bathe in my bird bath. To top it all off I went to bed at 9:15 last night and didn’t wake up until 5:30 this morning, which counts as a full night of sleep in my book.

Our dining room table has been in the family for more than 45 years. We bought it for our second home at an unfinished furniture store, a good young couple project with more time than money. It’s oak, round, with two leaves and six chairs. Just right for a family of five with lots of aunts, uncles, and friends close at hand. The chairs are scarred by dogs, kids, loads of family dinners, and countless holiday gatherings. It has lived in four homes.

It’s April Fools day, but I don’t feel like a joke, or making a joke, or having a joke played on me. Nothing really seems funny anymore. My body aches, my spirit aches, and a random sort of meanness feels afoot. I’d like to be happy. On most days I am. Especially now with everything in bloom. I noticed yesterday that the Eve’s Necklace is turning pink with flowers, and it has become a big tree, so there will be lots of them. And there are flowers on the Marie Pavia rose. And my body aches from work, and that’s a good thing.

I’m about 25% through the job of stripping the landscape cloth out of the new north garden. It’s harder than it might seem. First of all, most of the old mulch is still sitting there. Secondly, the material is now tied to the ground by coastal bermuda grass which has deep roots and strong runners. Finally, grass has grown through the material and holds the mulch in place. So, even when it’s finally pulled up there’s lots of weight.

Every once in a while, after watching an event unfold, I like to ask myself, what would I have done? I did it yesterday, for instance, while reading up on the events that led Immigration and Customs Enforcement to take Rumeysa Ozturk, a Turkish national and Fulbright scholar, here on an F-1 student visa as a doctoral student, into custody and strip her of her visa. Apparently, she was picked up because she was one of four authors of an editorial piece last year in the Tufts student paper protesting Israel’s actions in Palestine.

I wonder. Who were the men and women who arrested Tufts University graduate student Rumeysa Ozturk? Were any of them married? If so, did they kiss their wives or husbands goodbye that morning and tell them they loved them?

I am in the home stretch of my spring fling of gardening. Beds are mulched. Weeds are pulled. Plants are in the ground. Everything that should be green is green. Yesterday and the day before we got more than an inch of rain, and more is scheduled today. And it’s the best sort of rain. Slow and steady.  Grasses are growing, the trees are replacing depleted stores, and the ground is softening, which is more good news for me, because I still have a few spots that need cleaning and repair.

I am in the warm embrace of spring. My bluebonnets are up and last night's rain should be just the drink they need to really flower, and the sky’s water will do the same for the spiderworts. The Irises are blooming as well, benefiting from their move to better soil and more constant sun. It will be quite a show out my kitchen window this year. And less you think I’m locked in purple, I have a Crossvine and a Texas honeysuckle giving me red and yellow blooms.