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.

This is another grief story. Today I head to Marathon, Texas for a small music festival, the aptly named Marathon Songwriter’s Festival.

We’re having a hill country summer. There’s rain to keep things growing, and the summer heat is bearable. Unfortunately, the lakes and rivers are too low and too dry. But it’s still nice to be able to go outside.

There’s a lot of mourning going on these days. People I know are passing left and right. The old crowd is getting smaller. Inevitable but still distressing.

My little pink flower got me thinking the other day. Not always a good thing but sometimes something comes of it. So, let’s try this. It’s about sharing.

At the base of the big crape myrtle is a flower bed that once was full. That was when the tree was tiny. There was turks caps, salvia greggi, and rock roses. They were abundant. Then the tree grew large.

I went to a memorial service yesterday for a man I barely knew. We had a casual relationship; it was centered around a musician we favored.

I love summer. I got home yesterday following lunch and an afternoon of music with time to mow. So, I did. I changed into my work clothes and fired up the zero turn mower.

Made music with friends yesterday. The best way to make music. And there were friends there to listen, too. And two of my cousins showed up, and that was special.

Celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of my friends’ wedding yesterday. It was nice to see everyone. It made me think of my fiftieth wedding anniversary. It happened during Covid. June 2020.

It’s a melancholy weekend. Memorial Day. For ages it was our time at the river. The Nueces. We’d go with family and friends.

I like the sound of rain on my metal roof. The sound of hail, however, is different. It sounds exactly like someone dumping a bucket of rocks on my roof.

I had an epiphany yesterday. As I changed the sheets on my bed, I thought perhaps I should change the pillow shams as well. After all, they sit there every day collecting dust. So, maybe they should be washed.

My strongest Valentine’s Day memory is from the first grade in 1953. We lived in Oceanside California. My father was stationed at Camp Pendleton. My grandfather back in Texas had just died on the 11th.

Another project is in the books. The accent wall in the bedroom is painted and the bed is moved to it’s third location in the last fifteen years.

I’m still at it. Yesterday I went through all the dressers, desks, and cabinets to pull out picture frames. Some had pictures, but most were empty. I dispersed the nice frames to the kids.

Here’s an odd thing I’ve noticed in my journey of recovery from the illness and the loss of my wife. Sports are once again interesting, particularly when there’s a story involved, a story such as the emergence of the Detroit Lions as a winning team, having won nothing for a long time.

The death of my friend this week got me thinking about the death of my wife. A natural progression. It’s been three and a half years since she died.

Another life is over. Another friend is gone. And now the ripples of grief are running through the fabric of the lives he touched.

Dishes. I have dishes. It’s amazing the variety of dishes a couple can collect in 50 years of marriage while raising three kids. We have three sets of China.