This weekend I went to see a play, Las Nuevas Tamaleras, a funny and touching story of three friends and cousins who set out to make tamales — and create a link to past generations of women. From the great-grandmother who spoke only Spanish and who had known only one man, one who had not treated her kindly, to the great-granddaughter, who moves easily between two languages and finds happiness with her husband, we see more than the exchange of recipes, more than a discussion over whether to spice the masa, the cornmeal paste that holds the meat filling.

We see both the hard work and the deep satisfaction of preparing that which sustains.

Yesterday I was late in picking up my son. When I got to the school, the playground was nearly empty. I saw him at once. He waved at me but continued to swing. Leaning back, his feet strain for the sky. When the swing begins its backward descent, he drops his head forward, his hair a curtain over his knees.

Just as I begin to lose patience, he makes a flying leap from his perch at its apogee. His legs pump air for a moment, then break his fall in the soft mulch. He rolls neatly onto his side and climbs quickly to his feet. He brushes his clothes and hoists his backpack to his shoulder.

As he comes toward me, the sunlight of the late fall afternoon catches in his hair.

Storm winds visited us recently. At four a.m. I woke to darkness within and an odd pressure without. Moving to the front of the house, I watch and listen as trees bend in half, windows rattle and walls shake. My bare feet step in the cold water of a small puddle. Wind has pushed rain under the door. I push back with a large towel. Husband and the children, in the newer part of the house, slumber on. I too climb under the duvet and huddle, waiting for the storm to pass.

The winds eventually die away; the rain remains a steady drizzle. Tree limbs litter our yard, lay across power lines in the alley. Rain has flooded our street, and my car. We don slickers and walk the neighborhood. Many streets are blocked. Here an ancient tree has shattered. There a tall cedar, a warrior in its prime, has fallen. I bend over to touch it, pay my respects. When I leave, I take a branch fragment with me, cones still green.

Everywhere we look, we see downed trees. On the corner four streets away, we see a roof line cloven in two, people packing their car to seek shelter elsewhere. Could have been worse, we all say to each other.

In the rain, we clear our yard, and yards adjacent. We stack limbs and branches, rake up loose pieces, sweep the road of leaves and pine needles. Then we lay down our rakes and walk some more.

It will take time to survey the full extent of the damage. For now, we walk and as we walk, sometimes our hands bump.

Labor Day has come and gone and with its passing, so too the heat of the summer has eased. Mornings now are cooler – the heat holding off until 10 a.m. or later.

The children and I went to Brazos Bend State Park. The heat started early that day and we took refuge in the Nature Center, where we petted a week-old baby alligator. We walked around a lagoon with its coterie of ducks and the occasional egret. We hid from the afternoon heat in a nearby gas station, where we ate french fries and ice cream.

By the late afternoon, the heat was more forgiving and the breeze had picked up. We walked to the far side of the lake and sat on a bluff, on the narrow end of the water, where the reflection of trees lined both sides of the lake and the far end. As we sat, the noise of the cicadas rose and reached a crescendo. A bass jumped once, twice, and kept on going. Son the younger counted seven circles of ripples. A magical number. The number of intuition meets the symbol of fearlessness and freedom of movement.

Later that night we peered through telescopes at Saturn. A night of the new moon, the sky was deep and endless.

This morning I woke to the sound of rain. All day long the soft patter and heavy, gray clouds cocooned the house. The children slept late.

Early morning I drop off the car and walk back home. On the way, I find a stand of phlox, white petals set with a ring of purple. I stoop to inhale their fragrance. The odor reminds me of my grandmother, of the stem or two of phlox, sometimes white, sometimes lavender, that graced her summer breakfast table.

Storm warnings keep me home all day. I float through this day that has no schedule. A gift of time.

Late afternoon, I step outside, into a street cooled by the downpour. The air smells of mint, freshly washed.