Sue was talking to our neighbor recently. She and her husband and new baby were heading to the beach for a week. In their case it was Huntington Beach, as she said, "a family favorite." We have now been leaning in to our own beach time; the anticipation is almost as good as the beach itself.

"Welcome to a Monday." That's how Harry Starkey often greets his friends via text thread at the start of a new week.

Our sprinklers have officially died. No big deal about losing our sprinklers. It's only 105 out there. It's a low simmer.

Every morning over the last two weeks we've woken up early and turned on "The Championships." Wimbledon. We've been doing this for years. Every year it seems like a holiday, a celebration of tennis.

With kids, you never know. Never know when they're going to wow you or when they're going to knock your socks off.

Napier Hill had exquisite taste. I feel like my taste quotient improved just knowing her. Just talking to her.

Vacation wouldn't be vacation without my annual sacrifice in the game of Scrabble. Sue does crossword puzzles, plays the New York Times games Wordle, Spelling Bee and Connections and generally is the master of word games. I, on the other hand, do none of these things so I am like a light sna…

OK, it's hot. Hotter than it's ever been. Or hotter than it's ever seemed. However, there are some bright spots. Let's start with swimming.

The Columbia River Gorge was one of our last stops on the return from our recent road trip up the Pacific coast to the San Juan Islands. It had been a great trip, with one beautiful snapshot after another and the Columbia River Gorge would top it off.

"Dang, there are a lot of trees in Oregon," I remarked as we drove through an especially forested stretch of Highway 1. I’ve never seen so many trees. There is a different kind of green up here, just call it Oregon green.

Sprinklers. It's a no-win situation and right now I'm not winning. No one really wins with sprinklers and if they do, victories are temporary. Sprinkler heads are always breaking off. If not breaking off, jamming up. Given how pitched the battle can be, if you're smart, you'll take a tie ove…

Playing Makin Groceries is a small tradition in our family. Every family has their traditions, large and small, and they’re all important. Makin Groceries is a card game, played like Go Fish, which features the food of New Orleans. Cards have pictures of beignets, Zapp's potato chips, sausag…

Sue was watching the morning news on Channel 17. There was a story about the massive cicada invasion coming this spring.

Last Sunday we had a celebration of life for John David Merrill, Sue's dad and my father-in-law, in the club room at the Bakersfield Racquet Club. Herb Benham IV sang "Live Forever" by Billy Joe Shaver and "Blue Star," a Willie Nelson piece. John loved Willie Nelson. His niece Trish Merrill …

It started at 2:14 p.m. The moon took a bite out of the sun. Just a nibble, like an appetizer.

Jeff Pickering was in town last week. Jeff now lives in Vero Beach, Fla., where he runs the Indian River Community Foundation. In addition to Jeff and his family — wife Stephanie and kids Colin, Olivia and Grant — Indian River is home to some of the best citrus in the country, especially the…

As Sal Moretti predicted in a column on Monday, it has been a great week for tennis, with the Bakersfield Racquet Club hosting the Bakersfield Tennis Open.

Sam Ames may be quietly doing more for Bakersfield's image than just about anybody. Ames, who manages Action Sports, is the founder and architect of the recently run 11th annual Rock Cobbler bike ride.

I have many fond memories of Pete Tittl, the longtime restaurant critic for The Bakersfield Californian, who retired recently. The first was 30 years ago when he told me to open a 401(k).

He loved orange cones. He had a big one in his garage. He wasn't afraid to use it with his son-in-law.

Calls at 3 o'clock in the morning are rarely good. Somebody has been in an accident, somebody has been arrested, somebody is up to no good.

There is nothing sweeter than the desert in the winter.

Christmas. Past and present. It's always been my favorite holiday.

I'm starting to cook again. I don't know whether that's good or bad. Depends on who you ask and on what night you ask them.

My brother Mark was telling me he'd been to Mammoth to see Mom. He had another Mom story to add to the library.

I'm not sure I've ever gotten more responses than I did a few weeks ago when I mentioned that I have been suffering from depression and that I have spent the last nine months in psychiatric facilities.

I have seen both sides now. The good, the bad, the up and the down. I've seen it and I can tell you I prefer the up and the good.

There are a thousand stories about the Bakersfield Racquet Club, which will celebrate its 75th anniversary on Oct. 21.

How sweet is this rain? Driving in from the desert, flying over Breckenridge and Bear Mountain, walking by the bike path, green everywhere. No brown, no evidence of past fires, just carpets and hillsides of green.

Going to Smith's Bakeries is like going to church. It can be a religious experience. It makes you want to give thanks, burst into song and shout hallelujah.

We had dinner at our house recently. I found myself sitting with three young couples, all in their 30s. Wine was flowing and so was the conversation.

A friend texted me from San Diego. His news carrier has given notice. After 15 years of delivering the paper, he can't do it anymore.

There are plenty of reasons not to bake bread, including the fact that you can buy it at the store. Trader Joe's sells good bread as does Baker's Outpost and grocery stores have Dave's Killer Bread, which toasts well, butters up nicely and welcomes honey, strawberry jam or peanut butter.

"Dad, you need a new bed," Herbie said. "It's a game changer."

I looked out the back window of our house. Something looked different. Something had changed.

Recently, I got a letter from the IRS. Correspondence with the IRS can be buried in a sea of catalogs, an ocean of PG&E bills, a reservoir of letters from the Social Security Administration, Medicare and credit card companies, hoping to tempt you to transfer your credit card balance "wit…

My friends were impressed.

This is a miracle, the miracle for which I have been looking. Maybe it's the start of something and if not, at least we can see that miracles are possible.

Fog. Remember it used to be like this.

Would this be the year I'd fall off the wall on the front porch while stringing up the evergreen garland and white twinkly lights? If 2022 weren't memorable enough, falling backward into the scratchy pink bushes would do the job and serve as a catchy first line in next year's Christmas letter.

It was probably time to sell the truck five years ago but with trucks you don't want to make any sudden moves.

Sarah was standing by the wrought-iron gate when I arrived. Rob's truck was parked in the driveway like a horse awaiting its master.

We have new neighbors next door.

The magic trick is turning a less-than-lighthearted subject into something that will bear fruit like the sweet pomegranate tree in our front yard.

I raised my heavily muscled arms, arms which I've always been proud of, and then rolled my shoulders forward as if my shoulders were stiff, which they were but that's not why I rolled them.

Success story. We can't have too many of those. This victory march ended recently at Jeffrey Cowan's wedding, surrounded by people who had been through the good and the not-so-good. It was time to celebrate.

I walked down 20th Street. Something I've done a million times but this was different. No assault from the sun. The ankle-biting mosquitoes seem to be hanging on, but I'll trade the absence of one for the presence of the other. There is hardly anything better than a leisurely walk on a cool day.

Toward the end of our last visit south to see our grandkids Andrew, 7, and 5-year-old Lillian, Sue said, "I want to give you a two-minute warning."

I'm invisible. Even if you want to see me, you can't. I'm three-quarters gone and a one-quarter hanging on by my disappearing fingernails.