Weeknotes: July 13–17, 2026
Monday, July 13
Another heat wave arrives, as if reporting for its week-long residency. I write the forecast in my notebook, just to see the temperatures all neatly lined up in my own handwriting. Around two o'clock, I relent, button up the house, and turn on the air-conditioning. In icy privilege, I sit on my bed and work, back propped against a pillow.
Later, at the brewpub, I get to know a couple I met earlier in the summer who are relatively new to Michigan. Both are fascinating — erudite and well-traveled, with a bundle of interests that bisect my own. They tell me about living in Antarctica and cycling across the U.S. We discuss running, writing, and Howard Frank Mosher. I note with satisfaction both are notebook carriers, and as we trade book recommendations, my Japanese brass pen gets passed back and forth across the table.
Weeknotes: July 14–18, 2025
Monday, July 14
The aggressive plant growing up the side of my house is a trumpet vine. I didn't plant it, but I've watched it multiply over the past few years until it finally produced a series of red trumpet-like blossoms. I didn't know what it was until I saw those same flowers in the community garden at Frog Island Park and finally looked it up. At least it’s native.
Through the haze of Canadian wildfire smoke I walk up to a brewpub to read my Icelandic detective novel in which the characters are suffering similarly smoky skies from a volcanic eruption. Up the gravel track through Frog Island, a man is stretching his legs on the soccer pitch and blasting Latin music from a boombox. At the other end a group of kids are sitting cross-legged on the concrete amphitheatre stage. Apart from the smog, it's a perfectly lazy summer night in Ypsilanti. I think about how happy I've been living in this town over the past four years.
Inside the brewery a man is speaking to a packed house. A keyboardist sits behind him. I order a beer and ask the bartender what's up. "It's opera night. We're actually closed for a private event, but I'll serve you." The man begins singing and I escape out the side door to sit in the little beer garden overlooking a very subdued Depot Town. Two tables away a woman is quietly crocheting some type of garment. Otherwise, the place is deserted. I read my book and people-watch. A train passes. A mezzo soprano threatens the glass window. There’s a round of applause. It’s a soothing blend of sounds.
Walking home along the ridge I notice how low the river is. Out in the thigh-deep channel a fly fisherman casts his line. To my right, down in the park, two dogs run full tilt across the fresh cut grass.