October is mullet roe month, with those huge female red roe mullet. Males are smaller, with white roe. We seem to have a spawning ground in the little “protected” area that is our front yard now. Large mullet jump evenings and mornings. About sunup today two different small boats drifted through with someone standing in the bow scanning the bottom and then casting the net for its circular drop. Lead weights in the rim drop the ring straight to the bottom then, as the fisherman pulls the net up, the lead weights drag in along the bottom and close so that nothing escapes.  Now the birds – first a large flock of what may be cormorants flying in, landing and floating. They dive, seemingly as if on cue, the whole flock disappears at once, then all pop to the surface simultaneously. Float, dive, surface. Float, dive, surface, float. Evidently noticing them, a bunch of pelicans arrive, circle, and splash down clumsily amongst them. Seagulls overhead joining in the fun of the feas...

Something about sunset induces melancholy. Even, God forbid, elicits the worst sort of doggerel. Often did, at least in me, I never knew why. At the end of the day, the day ending, another day of life, loves far away. I don’t know. Memories from long ago. Daddy’s home! Papa, come get me. Sitting on the east bank of the Susquehanna watching a groundhog watch me watching him watch me, and trying to let go of what never again will be. At sea. Or longings. Wondering why what I expected isn't, wasn't. Not always, seldom in fact, just from time to time. But when it comes, it can take me way down if I let it, or sometimes even in spite of me.  It was that way last night, happened last evening. First time since moving here that I missed My Laughing Place, to go and wonder why life is what it is instead of other. But this is better than MLP, far better, except there’s no ancient cedar to lean against. No ants either, though, or mosquitos, gnats.  What was it? Something about the ...

Hebrews 5:1-10 (RSV) 5 For every high priest chosen from among men is appointed to act on behalf of men in relation to God, to offer gifts and sacrifices for sins. 2 He can deal gently with the ignorant and wayward, since he himself is beset with weakness. 3 Because of this he is bound to offer sacrifice for his own sins as well as for those of the people. 4 And one does not take the honor upon himself, but he is called by God, just as Aaron was. 5 So also Christ did not exalt himself to be made a high priest, but was appointed by him who said to him, “Thou art my Son, today I have begotten thee”; 6 as he says also in another place, “Thou art a priest for ever, after the order of Melchiz′edek.” 7 In the days of his flesh, Jesus[a] offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears, to him who was able to save him from death, and he was heard for his godly fear. 8 Although he was a Son, he learned obedience through what he suffered; 9 and being made perfect he beca...

No way. Way. No way. Way. No way. Way. Linda says I slept ten and a half hours, waking up at 7:38, with one rest stop. Now, coffee and one square of dark chocolate for wakeup. Still, I’ve been getting up at four o’clock for forty years, so this doesn’t feel right or quite natural, as though I’ve wasted the best part of the day. Eight o’clock, out on my porch, sound of sawing and hammering, city workmen on a project repairing the nearest boardwalk in Oaks by the Bay park at my feet next door. USAF jets fading in the distance; in the bay seven floors down just below me, a mullet jumped. Yep, this is it, this life is the heaven we get, don’t waste one day of it. There’s the Navy going out for another hard day at sea. Not the Navy I was in, they’ll return in time for Happy Hour. Just remembering, reminiscing. If I’m some time and place else instead this morning, I’m in uniform, with CharlieFour company, marching across the parade grind. Today’s my turn as squad leader. Hup. Hu...

Eight-thirty to four, seven and a half hours, not bad at all, in fact, a second consecutive night of much better. 74F 57% and steady breeze outside up here. Yawning and could return to sleep leaning back, feet up here in my lift chair, but work to do, so coffee and a square of dark chocolate mint. Work to do. From the platform rocker to the lift chair comes sad news though not unexpected, Coach Steve Spurrier retiring effective immediately. My all time favorite from Gator QB, Heisman ’66, leading UF to the top of the mountain as head coach. A favorite mental picture: Coach furiously slamming his visor to the ground. Back years later as Gamecocks head coach: how often does head coach of the visiting opposing team get a standing ovation in The Swamp. Wishing he could have retired on the highest note, but knowing he never would have, as indeed never did I, I pray he finds, as I have, that the years from 70 on are the best of all. Amen . Bible Seminar this morning: Mark 11 and a scan...

This is not like a house where opening side windows brings cross-ventilation, because there are no side windows. When weather was suitable, we did open side windows, but never on the ground floor, only upstairs, for reasons of security. But no, we did have side windows open from time to time, in the newer parts, kitchen and family room. Cross-ventilation up here is better termed through-ventilation. Opening a door on the Bay side and on the Beck side brings wind sweeping through such that the condo is instantly freshened. Breeze at seventh floor seems noticeably more vigorous than at ground level almost any time. Sleep was better last night. Except that furo40 at five caused Father Nature to ring several times overnight, slept from eight to five, nine hours, fairly unheard of. Overwhelming exhaustion had accumulated and circadian rhythm was so out of whack that I took some little blue pill that Tass suggested and Linda produced. May try it a few nights and see if I can reestabli...

Wake to the roar of a B-52 cleared for takeoff from the park next door, sit up for a moment, stand, pull back the curtain slightly, lift the blind and peek out as a herd of motorcycles thunder up Beck Avenue. First time I recall sound coming into the condo from the Beck side. Now and then a ship's horn warning small craft in the Bay, but not even St. Andrews Jazz Festival music wafts in from the Beck side when the door is closed. And there's a text from 12:28 AM. Light of a catamaran anchored a hundred yards or so offshore. Hard to judge distance on the water whether close Bay or open sea. Deliciously perfect night, slightest breeze, not yet chilly this fall season but too cool to sit out here on the porch uncovered. So my heavy dark green bathrobe, with hood up to keep damp night air off my neck. October darkness on St. Andrews Bay, and I'm alive. Gratefully alive in +Time+ and looking east. Which stirs one of life's happiest memories of nearl...