I have a swivel rocker my late wife and I purchased shortly after we bought our first house in 1975. It’s an Ethan Allen chair and it was our first piece of furniture that wasn’t a hand me down or bought from an outlet store. It was re-upholstered in 2010 when we built our current home. It long ago lost its central, front room role to bigger, fancier chairs, mostly recliners, and was relegated to the bedroom. It came back to the front room this year, when I took over its bedroom space for my music.

I worked outside yesterday and at the end of the day I was worn out from the wind. I’ve had days of it blowing from the west and the north and now it’s blowing from the south. And it’s blowing hard, and making loud noises, and tumping things over. It’s like walking down a crowded sidewalk or jostling through people at a big music event. You’re pushed and beat upon. I’ve breathed dust from every part of Texas, and none of it feels good for me. I want it to stop.

The spring cleaning of the gardens is making steady progress. The next big project is to mulch the area that holds my newest trellis and was once home to a peach tree since departed. I’ve put down limestone blocks to replace the old fence as the back border, but there's still a couple of those to go, and there are a few windblown grasses to pull up. Then I’ll turn the old mulch, add the new and we’ll be done.

There’s a cool breeze this morning. A Carolina Wren is looking for friends, and the day looks promising. We sure need rain. All that’s promised, however, is more wind and dust, laced with fire warnings. This bodes ill for summer, which is why I’m making plans for Maine and maybe the mountains of New Mexico, anything to escape the heat, if and when it comes, which it most likely will.

Progress is being made. The sumacs which lined the ground between my house and the fence of the back pasture, are disappearing. They are being meticulously cut and pulled by yours truly. The view of the pasture is back in season. I had let it slip away these last five years as the voracious little shrubs conquered ever more ground and closed in around me, cutting off my view and shortening my horizons. But that’s done.

West Texas followed me home. It kicked up on Sunday when we left Lajitas. High winds scoured the land and lifted sand and soil into the air. We out drove it, but the system kept on moving east, until it got here yesterday. There was a thunderstorm in the night, then wind, mighty wind, too. Things flew around, fences came loose, and I lost sight of the hills out my back windows.

My latest trip to Lajitas and Big Bend is in the books. It was a week under the stars with friends and music. We played games. Sat by the pool. Ate good food. Laughed, and generally had a good time. There were hikes and explorations galore and my daughter got to check off a number of bucket list items which included long walks in canyons and standing by the Rio Grande.

This morning I went for a walk to the cemetery that sits beside the entrance to Maverick RV park where we’re spending a peaceful week in Lajitas. There’s not much to see at the cemetery. Most of the graves are unmarked barrows, piles of Boguillas sandstone, the bones of the earth covering the bones of men. Seems fitting and oddly peaceful. 

It’s nineteen this morning with a light dusting of snow. Slightly peculiar weather for the Hill Country of Texas. Of course, we’ll take any sort of moisture the heavens decide to bring us even if it's in a more or less solid form. There’s also a strong north wind blowing which means wind chills and more cold air. I think the winter storm is scheduled to loosen its grip by the weekend, just in time for me to leave for Big Bend.

Typically, when I speak of the garden beneath the big oaks, I mean the one closest to the house. The one I can see from my kitchen window. There is a second group of oaks, however, just beside it to the north and out of sight from the kitchen window. It is the garden of my concentration this spring. Left mostly to its own devices, it was home to Turks Caps, Spiderworts, Rock Roses, and the Prickly Chicken Band which is a collection of metal musical-instrument-playing chickens given to me on my 65th birthday, complete with stage.

It was also home, however, to bindweed, coastal bermuda, and hackberries. And those days are now over, at least for the bermuda and the hackberries. I’ve dug up the former and pulled up the latter. Where I can’t pull them up, I’ve cut them to the ground and covered the stump with a tin can. I’ll attend to the bindweed when it starts appearing later this spring. The prickly chickens and their stage, at the moment, are covered in leaves, and I hope to change that today.

It’s raining this morning, which is good for my back. It means no digging in the garden on my hands and knees. It will be a day of rest, and the payoff will be a moist garden once the rain stops. Nature finds a way, I guess, of taking care of children and old men. But even though I ache, I still also ache to keep going, to repair what neglect has torn asunder. It’s good to have a drive, I guess.

Snow has fallen, starting its work of covering the imperfections of earth. Whenever I see a first snowfall, I always wonder if this is how an ice age started. The snow came. It stayed. It came again. It stayed. Before the days of instant communication, how would humans have known what to do? Would going south have been a thing? Of course, we’re a long way from that. The weather people are keeping us apprised, we know when the snow will end, and even where it’s snowing.

This morning I am sitting within fifty yards of the Rio Grande, just outside Alamosa, Colorado. In late February I will be camping alongside the same river in Lajitas, Texas. In both places the river will be about the same width. I could easily throw a rock across it. I suppose, running as it does through land that is mostly desert, it just never has a chance to get as big as some of its sister rivers. Plus it’s the US/Mexico border so there are lots of people using its waters.

I’ve hiked to the edge of the South Rim in Big Bend National Park, and the top of Guadalupe Peak in the Guadalupe Mountains National Park, but yesterday, I took an equally satisfying ride in a gondola to the top of Sandia Mountain in the Cibola National Forest just outside Albuquerque, New Mexico. We went for the views and watch the sunset, and I got both cases. It was especially impressive being so close to the mountain as the gondola climbed. It was the easiest peak I've ever done.

Long ago my arborist son brought home four cedar poles. “Let's use them to build a shed around the well,” he suggested. Holes were dug and the poles set, and there they sat. Four, forlorn corners waiting to be connected to one another. I toyed with all manner of materials as I pursued our rustic dream.Then came the hail storm and the roofers. Presto, I had tin, and old tin is a time-honored rustic material.

I’m building a door for my little pump house shed. I’m using recycled material. Mostly old fence slats. For the first time in my woodworking life I’m also using glue. I have no idea why this is the first time, but it finally dawned on me that almost every time I see a woodworking video the host is gluing something. It must work.

It’s day two of the new year. Yesterday, I stepped out into the great unknown of 2025. One day. Relatively uneventful. The big news was the first day hike at The Great Falls of the Potomac. I have now seen the falls on four rivers – the Niagara, the Sioux, the Pedernales, and the Potomac. And I have walked along two named river gorges. The Potomac and the Rio Grande. Not bad.

Rain. Nice. Soft rain, too. The rain barrel that was nearly empty yesterday is now full. It would be good if it fell all day, but I have a feeling it’s a short term thing.

Sunday was a day of rest for me. I did find and fix a leak in the pool plumbing. Courtesy of a Mockingbird.