A little riff on marriage, about what it meant to be us..

Yesterday, as I was mowing the yard, I drove right into my old life.

Nature. Life’s little instruction book. Particularly, when it comes to making do.

This is the spring of the two blooms. My oaks are putting on new leaves, again. Nice.

Wow. Three days away from writing this little blog and it’s like all the words in my brain decided, “If you’re not going to use us, we’re just going to head out.”

This past winter I introduced pansies into the flowerbed beneath the big oaks. I needed the color. Something nice to look at out the window.

I like these cool mornings and warm afternoons. The former is dedicated to casual yard work, while the latter is dedicated to riding activities, like mowing on the zero turn.

Cue James Brown. I feel good. Two weeks into a six-week group grief counseling session, things are falling into place.

Bill Worrell gave me a gift once and never even knew he did it. He threw a Christmas party that was open to all comers.

It has come to this. From the drive as I enter it, I can no longer see the house. Trees obscure the view, trees that once were barely more than head high.

Dreamed I got laid off. Didn’t seem to bother me. Not sure what the job was or why I got let go. The dream came during a good night’s sleep. I guess it was just the brain’s way of cleaning things up.

One, true, beautiful thing. That was my thought last night as I endured another session of trying to stabilize a life destabilized by the death of my wife.

Sometimes, in the morning, when I walk around the yard or stand on the porch, everything feels as it was, especially on a Sunday.

I spent much of yesterday morning in the yard and gardens. Mowing, edging, pruning, digging on my knees. I took a long walk into town. At the end of the day, my hands ached, my arms grew sore, I tired.

Once upon a time I played the role of the stage manager in a production of Our Town. Now I’m doing it in real life. Previously, my wife occupied the role. But she’s gone.

I took my old friend, the ‘65 Gibson, out for a spin last night, new strings and all. A picker’s circle, which has to be one of the best inventions of all time.

The swallows are back. All the old nests have occupants. Out in the garden the spiderworts are in bloom. And we have a few bluebonnets. It’s a muted spring, however, the profusion of previous years is missing.

What a week it was. Or maybe two. Full of anxiety and anticipation, both good and bad.

Every spring is a watching game. The weather warms, the cool winds blow, the rains fall. As they do, I start watching the plants for signs of resurrection.

The front flowerbeds flanking the driveway entrance to our home are transformed. Gone are the spineless cactus. Laid low by the freeze, I cut them down and dug them up.