Made the long drive from home to the mountains of Big Bend yesterday. As we hurtled along Interstate 10, leaving Ozona heading toward Fort Stockton, we passed through many a road cut, deep dives if you care to look, at the millennia that have passed between then and now.

It’s cold this morning by Texas standards. The temperature is in the 40s. The sky is clear and there’s hardly a breeze.

Went shopping yesterday. Did self-checkout. Left behind a loaf of bread. No idea how I managed that.

Boy, when mother nature decides to prune trees, she goes all in. I went to help a friend in Wimberley clear fallen limbs from the recent ice storm. I worked about four hours around three or four trees. I kept my chain saw humming and filled a 16-ft trailer with four foot high sides with branches.

A big gust of wind woke me up last night. Maybe there was rain, too. The driveway is wet this morning. At any rate, I went back to sleep. Woke up at six. My new alarm time.

I spent a great weekend with the young grandkids in Houston. We sat on the couch. We cuddled. We talked. We watched TV. We went for long bike rides in the neighborhood.

Got out the old push mower and mowed a bit yesterday, then took a nice long walk over the hills and dales of our little town. Clocked in at a little over an hour for 3.32 miles. Gained about 135 feet of elevation.

There’s frost on the ground and a chill in the air, but the temperature will rise into the seventies today. Spring might be on the way. I think I’ll walk around and inventory the bluebonnets.

I am home. A long road trip is in the books. Of course, for road warriors on active duty, that is, not retired, this is standard fair. And I sympathize.

Stood on the banks of the Rio Grande this morning. It is frozen nearly to the middle. The heavy grass crunched beneath my feet. I’m in Alamosa close to the river’s headwaters.

Bought a leather jacket on Thursday. It cost $10. It made me feel like a million. Found it at a thrift store in Alamosa. I saw it on the rack. Slipped it on in impulse.

I admit it. I have a bit of brain fog this morning. It’s a combination of long days and vino, or whiskey, or beer. Take your pick. And standing, and sitting, and listening to music.

Last year on my first trip to Red River and the Songwriter’s festival, we passed through San Luis, the oldest town in Colorado. The Church of the Station of the Cross was pointed out to me.

The sun is rising over the San Luis Valley. An owl just drifted off from its perch on the house to hunt. The sun is rising over the distant mountains. We are on the third day of our journey.

Started our trip at 7 a.m. yesterday in Gruene. Finished it yesterday at 11 p.m. Mountain Time in Santa Fe. We were running from weather. It caught us outside Junction.

We’re here. Gruene. We want to be there. Red River New Mexico. We are gathered together in the name of music. Bags are packed. We’re ready to go. Nearly. Weather is the issue.

The odd thing about funerals is that sometimes it’s the only place you get to see all of your family together. It happened that way Saturday as we marked the passing of my brother-in-law.

The kids are up. The mom is up. The grandpa is up. I think our children are sleep deprived. They all got two days off because the Pasadena schools were closed after the recent tornado tore through town roughing things up.

There’s a nip in the air and frost on the ground. It’s early but the day has fairly started. The trash can is out, the cats are fed, and there’s a load of wash going.

Good news. We got an inch of rain yesterday. Better news. The driveway repair held. The rain ran down the drive in torrents, turned right at the low side, and kept on going down the drain into the street.