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.

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.

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’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.

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.

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.