Weeknotes: July 21–25, 2025
I love it when the teller sends your check for a little ride on the scanner. Watching it loop around the bend is my favorite part of visiting the bank. So many transactions happen invisibly, I think I'm just excited when I see something happen in front of me. Like the satisfying thump of a rubber stamp.
Twenty minutes later I'm at Barnes & Noble buying yet another copy of Ann Leckie's Ancillary Justice for a friend's birthday. I was like this with Becky Chambers' The Long Way To a Small, Angry Planet — every book lover I knew got a copy on their birthday or at Christmas. At the top of the escalator, I take a few hasty steps down, then realize I'd rather enjoy the free ride. The breadth of the store comes into focus around me and I feel some nostalgia for the pre-digital world when a big chain book store felt like the gateway to possibility.
My next stop is less inspiring — Dick's Sporting Goods, another box store in a strip mall. I've been here three times this summer and whenever I walk through the door Aerosmith's "Dream On" is playing. That can't be a coincidence. But why would this gritty 52-year-old rock ballad be a cornerstone of the Dick's playlist? Aren't there other more appropriate jock jams, even within the Aerosmith catalog? What about "Walk This Way" or even "Sweet Emotion." Does "Dream On" sell more tennis rackets?
In Saline I help K hang a couple shelves and we share a pizza. Across the street working in her garden is my old neighbor Kay. She lost her husband in the fall of 2020 while I was still living there. We all loved Doug. He was one of those affable small town neighbors — friendly, helpful, funny, a reliable presence on our street. I still send Kay a Christmas card every year, but haven't talked to her in ages. I walk over and we catch up for a while. She says she's turning 87 on Friday. I make a mental note to send her a birthday card too.
Weeknotes: June 17–21, 2024
Monday, June 17
The start of my marathon training schedule coincides with a miserable heat wave. It's early morning runs or none at all. I'd expected the work on the Spring St. Bridge to be a summer-long endeavor, but as I'm about to make my detour, I see cars crossing in both lanes. To my left is a dirt lot that alternately serves as a staging area for construction crews and a depot for piles of compost in the summer. As I pass, a large earth mover uses its basket to push an aluminum rowboat across its expanse. The bridge looks unchanged; I'm not even sure what they repaired.
Although it's good news for this leg of my run, my satisfaction is tempered by the knowledge that they have already closed off the LeForge Bridge, which I cross even more frequently. LeForge is my gateway out of town, on foot or by car, and also offers easiest access to the river. Just east of the Pen Dam, it's where I put my kayak in. I've lived in river towns before, but never been so affected by their crossings as I am here.