Weeknotes: April 13–17, 2026
Monday, April 13
An early spring balm has seeped into the room. My jeans, left overnight on the chair, have a clamminess I associate with deep summer. Outside the open window everything is busy living, expanding, rising. On Saturday, I raked the perimeter of the house, pruning the overgrown sage bush, clearing debris, and pulling up endless bunches of yard garlic. I even mowed the lawn, mostly to mulch the thousands of accumulated twigs.
After my A.M. class, I work at my desk, watching the mercury on my window thermometer climb to 80°. I can’t help but feel like I'm missing out on the season. April 13, and I'm already panicking like it's mid-August.
Back by the fence, I trim back the raspberry bushes and clear old pots from the abandoned garden. I never know what to do with this area. Last year it was a half-baked sculpture garden. I was given a sack of wildflower seeds for my birthday — maybe I’ll till the weedy soil and scatter them. The lilies of the valley are sending up their tiny spears and a single red tulip has bloomed, hidden behind a thorny barberry bush.
Around 8:30, a thunderstorm marches in. Not a lot of rain, but noisy and theatrical. Nick and I stand on our porches, barefoot, talking across the driveway.
Weeknotes: April 6–10, 2026
Monday, April 6
The purple house opposite mine is still for sale. Two mallards explore its front yard — please be my new neighbors, I think.
In the afternoon, Nick appears at my back door bearing the most miraculous gift. "Hello sir," he exclaims, then holds out a white Riva flute case. Inside it is a vintage Casio PT-1, a 13" wonder of monophonic 8-bit joy. Like many kids in the '80s, this was my first keyboard.
I replace its four AA batteries, locate the green demo button among its rainbow array, and press play. Listed in various Casio manuals as "German Folk Song" or sometimes "Unterlanders Heimweh," this jolly little melody is pure nostalgia. A post on the Casio forum traces it back to a German-inspired Japanese children's tune called "Yama No Ongakuka." To me, it simply sounds like Brighton, Michigan, 1985.
For the first time in almost two weeks, I run my regular route through the city and across the Spring Street bridge. A memorial has sprung up for the 13-year-old boy who drowned in the river below. The last time I was here, emergency vehicles were just arriving to search for him. Colorful bouquets are taped to the cold steel rail along with cards and messages. I pause to read some of them, then look out at a pair of mallards, wondering for a fleeting second if they are the same ones I saw this morning on my street.
Weeknotes: October 20–23, 2025
Monday, October 20
Through trial and error, I think I've traced the signal hum to my outboard preamp, a Golden Age Pre-73 MKII. It was recommended to me by Fred Thomas and was integral to my last two albums. Maybe it just needs a new power supply — that would be the best case scenario. More impactful is the loss of my primary condenser mic, an old Studio Projects C1 I bought in 2006 and use for almost everything I make. Like all my gear, it's a budget piece, but it has survived nearly 20 years of abuse and performed beyond all expectations. I'll likely get both items repaired, but I can't afford it right now.
So, with my two workhorses out of commission, I'm left with what I've got. I think of the old adage "the best tool is the one in front of you." I have a handful of other mics, but nothing that really fills the role that the C1 does. I could borrow a decent condenser mic from a friend, but a part of me welcomes the limitations of making do with what's on hand. That’s where creativity starts.
During rush hour, I'm running down a hill toward a busy intersection. There's a car in the northbound lane facing me with its hazard lights on and another in the southbound left turn lane, also stopped. Several people are crouched in the middle of the road picking up some type of debris while evening traffic diverts around them. I assume it's broken glass from a collision, but as I approach, I see the road is scattered with what looks like an entire box of nails. Bending to help, I ask one of the good Samaritans how they got there.
"No idea. I wondered if it was a sabotage campaign from a local tire company," she jokes.
Some of the nail heads have already been driven into the soft asphalt and I have to pry them out with my fingernails. But, just think of all the punctures we're preventing.