I grow tired sometimes writing about grief. Partly, I suspect because I think, who wants to hear it all the time. But when you’re writing every day about what you see and what you feel, it’s hard to avoid.

December 7, 1941. Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. The country went to war and set off a chain of events that reached all the way down to touch a young woman in Ohio and a young man in Texas.

All the recent tiny rains, the ones the drizzle down over long hours, have done wonders for our bluebonnet crop in the back lots. The ground is wet as far down as you care to dig, and the plants love it.

Fried a pork chop last night. It came out just right. Golden brown with crispy fat. No pink inside. That’s a first. I won’t bore you with the details, except one.

Ordinarily, a gray, rainy day might feel cold and somber. But today’s gray, rainy day feels anything but.

Boom. The Christmas cards are done and in the mail. On the last day in November. He shoots. He scores. Now it’s present buying time. I already have some. I feel as though this may well be as pressure free a Christmas as I’ve had in a long, long time.

I’m nearly halfway through addressing my Christmas cards. Two boxes down, two boxes to go. My rough count stood at 60. I don’t get that many cards in return. The custom seems to have fallen out of favor.

For the first time in many moons, I tweaked my Christmas decorations. Added to the collection. Made changes.

I love brisk, cold mornings. Especially when I only need to go out into them to feed the cats or just stand around and enjoy the air.

It’s a fuzzy slipper heavy robe type of morning. Luckily, I have fuzzy slippers and a heavy robe. I’ve had both for a long time. It might be time for an upgrade. But well-worn fuzzy slippers and heavy robe are soothing, and I doubt anyone who sees me in them well ever think, jeez, get some new duds.

It’s a post party morning. The grandkids are asleep on the couch. The daughter is in the upstairs guest room, the room formerly known as my office. The house is quiet. There are clear skies over the pasture.

It looks as though another dreary day is in store. Not bad for winter, however, and rain in any form is good. So, I’ll take it.

One of the pleasures of Christmas decorations is the morning ritual of turning on the lights. I go from place to place in the house flipping switches, touching foot pedals. I turn on the lights of the tree, for the angels, for the nativity. I illuminate the dark corners.

Here we are one day before Thanksgiving and my home is nearly completely decorated for Christmas. I’m going to bring down the tree today. I was going to wait, but decided, what the heck. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I pulled away from my daughter’s house yesterday in a drizzly rain. It was cold, too. But I was buzzed and happy from the party, the new house, the adopted children. On the way home, however, I ran smack into the other half of life.

I remember as a boy traveling to visit my grandparents in San Antonio. Four boys, two adults in a two bedroom, no bath home. There was an outhouse. Pallets on the floor for the kids.

The good days continue, and if this is getting boring, I’m sorry. It’s off to Houston for another party. This time with friends and relatives at the daughter and son-in-law’s new home. More adoption celebrations.

When things are going well, things are going well. Finished putting up the outside lights yesterday. Strung them on the gate with zip ties, ran them up the drive on little stakes, twelve inches from the edging, 24 inches apart. Well, that was the plan.

Started stringing Christmas lights yesterday. I put up the hard ones. The icicle lights that hang from the gutters. They require a ladder. Boo.

Good morning. Word of warning. I’m infused with gratitude today, and I feel blessed and sort of gushy. So, if I see you, you’re liable to get a big hug, a thank you, and I love you.