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: October 27–31, 2025
Monday, October 27
Outside the pub the evening sky is lavender. A crew of runners, all in costume, piles up at the crosswalk, laughing and jostling on a Halloween fun run. I think I'll take the long way home.
At the bend on Norris I slip through the chain fence and walk past the old depot. To my left a man is chasing his laughing son down the hill on Maple Street. Everywhere, people are smiling. I am too. It's late October and I've been reading Ray Bradbury. Here's a gem from his introduction to the 1999 edition of The October Country:
Skeletons are wondrous ramshackle items that birth themselves when the humans they wore go away.
Ray loved skeletons. I wonder if his is glad to be unburdened of its mortal obligation.
Much of Depot Town is closed on Monday. With its silent barber shop, old brick facades, and ornate central clock, it resembles Green Town, Illinois, the fictional midwestern town where Bradbury set masterpieces like Dandelion Wine and Something Wicked This Way Comes.
At Schultz Outfitters I cross the street and disappear down the stairwell into Frog Island Park. Out on the pitch a group of friends are playing a pickup soccer game — coats are scattered across the terraced bleachers. A brown and white dog lays curled up, watching its human play. On the other side of the path the embankment leads down to the river. The stone firepit, built on the dry riverbed during summer’s drought, has been reclaimed by the rising water.
At the Forest Street bridge I lean over the rail to take my favorite photo. A man passing on the sidewalk says "I love that shot too." Another passerby comments "this summer was the lowest I've ever seen the river. I was worried about fish getting trapped in shallow pools."
"But look at it now," I say.