The final reunion is in the books. Anything we do going forward will be informal. I suspect there will be some of those.

Speaking of way back. I’m in Houston for my 60th high school reunion. Although to be absolutely clear, we’re celebrating the 60th anniversary of our graduation from high school. We haven’t actually had 60 reunions.

I’m going backwards a bit. As I mentioned earlier, my initial conditions were family, church, and World War II. But the latter inevitably led to the First World War. Why? Because my grandfather served in the 32nd Field Artillery and went to France.

History can be boring. One of my high school teachers, a football coach, taught history off mimeographed sheets where we filled in the blanks. But generally speaking, I always thought history was a great story.

Here’s a weird thing about memory. Italy was part of the Axis. But sandwiched between the evils of Germany and Japan, Italy came off as an almost accidental villain.

In my youth, the Second World War was almost as real to me as it was to those who fought it.

I was born in July 1946 in New Orleans, Louisiana to a mother from Ohio and a father from Texas. I tell you this because we all start somewhere, and those initial conditions are important.

I’ve been doing this for ten years, starting in 2014. Getting up. Almost every morning. Writing a few words. Posting them. First on Facebook. Then, in 2020, on my blog

I’m putting up the pen for a week. Taking a break. No real reason except it just feels right.

I have a touch of dry eye. An outflow, no doubt, of my recent surgery where I was immobilized for the better part of two weeks. I fell under the lure of the small screen and watched too many videos.

The biggest of the two chinquapin oaks is still largely a tree of bare branches. It’s odd because all of its brethren in the yard, lacy and burr, are on full display.

Rain is a weeders best friend. We had a big one on Tuesday, more than an inch. So, yesterday, after writing about my new enemy the Musk or nodding thistle, I had a beautiful morning with my turning fork digging up the pests.

I have a new enemy in the war of the weeds. The Musk, or nodding thistle. It has a beautiful, large, purple bloom. It has hyper aggressive leaves and stalks.

Yesterday I watched the passing of the moon between the earth and it’s sun. And for the briefest of moments the moon outdid the sun, and there was darkness upon the land.

I slept hard but not so long last night, and there were no dreams I remember. It was just the usual. Asleep at ten. Awake and two. Asleep at four and awake at six.

I slept hard and long last night. It was a night of vivid dreams. I still see the fragments of them this morning. I was busy in the night and my dreams were rich with detail.

We went to the viewing yesterday for the recently departed lady who cleaned my home. She was 57. I have no idea why disease claimed her so young. I have no idea if she regularly saw doctors. I have no idea if she had health insurance. Basically, I have no idea how she lived her life.

They’re putting out porta-potties along the main drag through town in anticipation of Monday’s solar eclipse. There’s a cache of barricades, too. No idea where those will go.

The lawn and drive are trimmed and tidy. Today, I’ll edge around the back porch. I have no lifting restrictions. The only warning was to avoid prolonged activity that brings me to the point of exhaustion. Fair enough. I think I can do that.

It happened yesterday. I was driving along and felt surprisingly normal. It was if no one had stuck metal catheters into my arteries through my groin and inserted stents into several other wonky arteries.