Life is funny. My great-grandmother, by whose house my house now stands, lived almost all of her life in this small Texas town where I now live. In fact, she died in the house next door while my youngest brother sat outside in 1968 and listened to his grandmother cry at the loss of her mother. It was the same year we lost our own mother. What a trying year for all. What’s strange to me, however, is that her husband, my great-grandfather, passed away in 1949, two years after my birth, and it felt to me as though he never existed. That he had lived and died in some long ago time. While it seemed my great-grandmother had lived for ages and had always been with me.

I am in overdrive. The weeds and grasses are flying out of the gardens; new stones edge the work. My big gate hangs, fixed; the star and the fleur de lis are painted and drying. I am getting ready for spring, because the gardens are getting ready for spring. Young bluebonnets are everywhere in the lawn and fields, and the Gregg’s Mist flower is sprouting, and the big oaks are shedding and the coral sages are budding.

The other day my oldest son and I were talking about how nice it feels to be home from a long trip that involved a lot of hustle and bustle. To sit in my chair, in my home. To have nothing to do other than what I want. And we talked about how difficult it used to be right after his mother passed. To be alone in the house. And how different it felt now, and as I tried to sum it up, he said, “The quiet is comfortable again.”

Travel. Especially long trips. Trips of more than two days. Always wears me out. It’s a litany of bathrooms with no room for dopp kits, showers with no water pressure, digging in bags for clothes, sketchy meals, and hit or miss beds. It was true in my youth as a business traveler and true now as a retired traveler. It’s the part that people who don’t travel miss or fail to understand. The pleasure of travel comes with a price and you have to be willing to pay it.

I am on the ground In Red River, New Mexico. This is my third trip to the Red River Songwriters Festival. There was heavy snow in the days preceding my arrival, and it snowed a bit yesterday upon my arrival. Then the weather cleared and now it is only clear and cold. Good winter weather for an old man who has never skied in his life and has no plans to start.

I’m on the road, sitting in a hotel in Albuquerque, New Mexico, waiting for the sun to rise. It’s the first leg of our pilgrimage to Red River, where we commune with friends and listen to music. We added this stop because a musician friend of ours has moved back home to care for her ailing mother, and we miss her and wanted to show our support. She joined us for a late dinner and later today will show us around the old town before taking us up a mountain to have a drink and watch the sun set.

I really like this idea of multiple universes. That each of us might be our own universe. Or maybe we’re just thin slices of a bigger universe. And we’re only that which we have observed. So, this means what I’ve observed is different than what other people have observed. And I used to think that all of this was impossible, there’s only one universe, but then I realized, I had no idea the moon existed until I saw it, and no idea what to call it until someone told me, and that was just something everyone agreed to. So, until I saw it, it didn’t exist, and there was no reason for me to believe that it did or would.

So, yesterday I was talking about thought experiments and so-called “over thinking”, and came to the realization the latter was probably the former, and it was good. And I think back to all the times I put it to use in my career, grabbing hold of a problem and mulling it over until suddenly there was an answer, and I can quote several of the cases to you, chapter and verse, the problem and the solution.

A good, odd thing happened the other day. I discovered I had failed to return home from my trip to Virginia with my knit hat, cashmere scarf, and lined leather gloves. I asked my daughter to check the house to see if they were anywhere to be found. When no word came to indicate a positive outcome, this is when the odd, good thing happened. I had no response to my loss other than acceptance. It was a thing that happened and I was good.

Clothes and cups are how I remember my trips around and across America. This morning I’m wearing a light, zipup sweatshirt hoodie I bought on a trip in 2015 to Rochester and it’s replacing my usual fleece jacket that I bought on a trip to Kansas City to watch my brother-in-law retire from the Air Force. Also, I’m drinking coffee from my Wall Drugstore Mug (South Dakota in case you didn’t know). The mugs are purpose bought mementos. The clothes are usually reminders that I was ill prepared for the weather, although to be fair, I do find clothes an appealing way to remember concerts and trips.

The sun came out from behind the clouds yesterday and that was a big improvement to the day, to the week, and to my psyche. I’m not a huge fan of the early months of the year. They’re just too dark, short, and cold. When I still worked, I can remember entire days without sun. I’d go to the office in the dark and come home after dark. Depressing.  Which I suppose is why in my retirement I try to clutter up the early months with things to do and places to go. I’m chasing away the blues.

It’s a travel day. My bags are packed, and I’m ready to go. It’s cold here, but colder there. As per usual, it feels as though there are a million more things I should be doing prior to departure. But history has shown it’s best to slow down.

It never fails. Birthdays. Christmas. Something strikes my fancy. It feels perfect for the intended. I buy it. I wrap it. But inevitably, along the way, from buying through wrapping and even giving, doubt sets in. The brilliance of the gift, it’s perfectness, fades.

I’ve been out and about the last several days, untethered from my computer and the urge to write. Spent time away with friends, listening to music, and socializing.

The cold and wet drove me indoors yesterday. It was a day of laundry and TV sports. During the course of the day, I barely saw a mention of Pearl Harbor and the Japanese attack in 1941. I guess it’s time of living in infamy is up.

I sang some songs yesterday to a crowd of people. Mostly nobody listened. A few did. I could see them looking at me. But the rest just talked and chattered as I played.

I made music yesterday with two friends. If you ever get a chance to make music with two friends, do it. We’ve played together off and on for about four years, taking our opportunities when they present themselves.

Well, I’m back from Marathon and I’ve gone from having my day intensely planned to having no plans at all. The day once again stretches out before me, empty waiting for me to fill it with whatever strikes my fancy.

A final bit on my grief story. My three children. They’ve all been supportive. They backed me on my decision to move their mother to memory care, and they’ve been there for me since she passed.

Yesterday’s grief story, while a story about grief, was incomplete. Part of the tale. Another part is the group of old friends, the ones who rallied round, kept in touch, invited me out, took me to football games, celebrated my birthday, bade me sing.