Weeknotes: April 21–25, 2025
Monday, April 21
I'm up earlier than usual and tip-toe into the kitchen to make coffee, trying not to wake Islay. If I make too much of a fuss, she will activate into breakfast mode and we'll have to begin our whole morning ritual. I turn the radio on low and learn that Pope Francis has died. I'm not religious and the Catholic church is historically controversial, but I liked this pope. For 13 years he was a voice of empathy and compassion to a large global flock. For him to die during a period of such fractious leadership is a blow to the world. He was an outlier amid his lineage and I'm afraid his successor will be much more conservative. That's how the pendulum is swinging right now. I visited the Vatican in 2018. I stood in St. Peter's Square and toured the Basilica. It's a place of awe and reverence, even for secular people like me.
In Massachusetts, it's Patriot's Day, a holy day for the running community. I’ts the 129th running of the Boston Marathon. I've never attended, nor qualified to run it (yet), but I love to follow the sport's oldest annual race. Like many, I was delighted when Des Linden, an American runner from Michigan, won in 2018. I read her memoir last year and this morning she announced that this would be her final professional marathon.
I keep the race broadcast on in the background while I work. Kenyan John Korir distances himself from the pack early on and it's his to lose. He finishes well ahead of any competitors and 13 years after his brother Wesley Korir, making them the first pair of siblings to wear the laurel wreath. The women's race is more dramatic with Kenyan Sharon Lokedi keeping pace with her teammate, the reigning Boston champion Hellen Obiri, until the final mile. Obiri is known for her kick, but it never comes and Lokedi pulls away, shattering the women's course record at 2:17:22.
Weeknotes: December 16–20, 2024
I guess I felt like writing this week. Happy Solstice!
Monday, December 16
My Christmas lights shine weakly against the gloom. After such a crisp start, December has retreated into rainy drear. At the supermarket I stand in the baking aisle looking for cardamom pods. The woman next to me is coming up short in her own spice search and we exchange friendly smalltalk about holiday busyness. A few minutes later she finds me in the next aisle waving in victory a small jar of ground cardamom. Such a sweet gesture, but I really want the pods. I thank her anyway.
After work I head back out into the drizzle on a longer set of evening errands. Just over a week until Christmas, but I'm thwarted on most of my stops. I do find the cardamom, though. I walk around Ann Arbor feeling dispirited, carrying only one of the several gifts I'd sought. I catch the last ten minutes of happy hour at Conor O'Neill's. I remember when this Irish bar opened in the late-'90s. It felt like an overly-commercial upstart on Main Street, but tonight I'm drawn to its well-established and unpretentious vibe. Some type of Harry Potter party must have recently happened; there are "Wanted" posters for Fenrir Greyback and "I solemnly swear I am up to no good" signs are tacked over several booths. I work on a pint of Smithwick's and write in my notebook, replenishing my cheer sip by sip.
A father with his young son approaches the bar asking if the North Pole mailbox has been taken down. The boy has a letter for Santa. The bartender disappears for a bit, then comes back to confirm said box is presently in the store room being prepped for delivery to the North Pole. He accepts the envelope on Santa's behalf, and moves off stage with a smile, ferrying away the kid’s hopes and dreams.