Weeknotes: June 1–6, 2026
Monday, June 1
Light rain falls on the crew resurfacing South Elm Street. Greg and I watch the procession of heavy machinery from the front window of the Oaks Eatery. Black coffee, Nueske's bacon, roast potatoes, two eggs over medium, and a pancake. I think the single pancake, as a toast alternative, adds a measure of pizzazz to the day ahead.
Last night we returned to Three Oaks to retrieve my favorite yellow scarf, accidentally left behind after the Jonathan Richman show in February. For three months, I mailed postcards addressed to My Yellow Scarf c/o the Tom Cat Tavern, offering reassurance and reminding it to behave: We'll talk about your drinking when you get back.
"Can we keep the postcards?" asked the bartender, handing me a paper bag labeled "Tim's Scarf ♡." I certainly don’t need them. We stayed for a couple pints, and I thanked them for putting up with my shenanigans. I considered intentionally leaving behind another article, but through better of it. In the evening we drove to Sawyer to hear Marisa Anderson play songs from her new album at Out There, a wine bar and concert venue built in a converted Shell service station.
Weeknotes: March 9–13, 2026
Monday, March 9
Esteban reclines on a peninsula of sunlight, his black fur illuminated and glossy. I pet him the length of his body and remember someone once telling me this reminds a cat of being groomed by its mother. Suddenly, it seems strange not to know anything at all about my pets' parentage. When we found Esteban, he was a feral kitten surviving in a drainage ditch outside K's office.
It was about a year after we adopted Islay, the runt of a litter of puppies being trampled over by her siblings in a crate at a Tractor Supply store. In my mind, their stories begin with me — typical human arrogance. Of course they both had mothers who cleaned and fed them until circumstances brought them into my life. How strange to call myself the parent of these wonderful little beings.
The temperature rises into the low 70s — a healing balm. After my run, I sit on the porch finishing Heather Rose's book, The Museum of Modern Love.
The purple house across the street is up for sale. I walked through it during a weekend open house, unlocking new rooms in the mental map of my surroundings. It's much more spacious than I expected. I wish I could afford to buy it — everything is so expensive right now.
I linger outside until the light begins to fade, listening to the sounds of my neighborhood: the see-saw tones of the bus door opening a block away, an eastbound train, a seagull calling over the river.