Weeknotes: June 16–20, 2025
Monday, June 16
"Those metal things you smash with a hammer to secure a loop of metal cable?"
"Ah, I know what you're talking about. Ferrules?"
"Yes! Pity the ferrule."
I'm at Ypsi Hardware where they translate pedestrian into practical. I leave with two small ferrules, costing $3.10. It's the summer of thrift. I want to spiff up the yard, but I'm trying to rely on stuff that's free, cheap, or already in my possession. Last Saturday was the College Heights neighborhood yard sale, the sequel to Normal Park's where I procured the two metal fish now swaying in my garden. Held back-to-back on the first two Saturdays of June, College Heights is usually as lively as its predecessor, though it seemed to me a little diminished this year.
On the ride there I found a $20 bill on campus and took it as a good omen. I spent $2 on a lemon muffin from a platter of homemade pastries on Roosevelt Street. Next, I bought a bird feeder I didn't need for $5, and immediately regretted it. I cruised down beautiful Cambridge Street, one of my favorite little neighborhoods in town, then west to Collegewood where, leaning against a tree with a "free" sign attached, was the hammer rail of a small upright piano. Jackpot.
Unlike last week's fish, this prize could not be transported under one arm or strapped to my bike rack. I hammered out several fevered messages to nearby friends with cars and Greg was my first responder.
Tonight's goal is to mount the piano hammers along the back fence behind my fish. With a pair of old tin snips I slowly maul the end of some steel cable that was once a zipline leash system I'd bought for Islay. She hated it and after only a year it was mercifully knocked down by a large branch during an ice storm. I stuff the frayed ends of cable through my two ferrules and smash them closed, creating a wire mount on the back of the hammer casing. With these three whimsical items — the two fish and the piano guts — I now have the beginnings of a sculpture garden.
Weeknotes: May 27–31, 2024
Monday, May 27
Riding through Frog Island, I awkwardly balance a mug of coffee in one hand, its contents sloshing against the clear lid. The ratatat of a snare drum echoes across the amphitheater's bowl. At the confluence of pedestrian bridges under Cross St., I turn right, then walk my bike up the hill to meet the band. American Legion Post 282 has a tradition of pausing the Memorial Day Procession -- they are adamant about calling it a procession, not a parade -- in the middle of the bridge and honoring lost mariners by dropping flowers into the river below. I stand next to a group of curious Girl Scouts leaning over the cement barrier and listen to the volunteer band play a shaky hymn. After the selected Legionnaires and Daughters of the Revolution send their bouquets over the edge, the bandleader stands in his Chuck Taylors and blows "Taps" on his bugle. Thirty seconds later the three gun salute startles me and I'm clearly not alone.
Even though the parade is not well advertised, I feel ashamed by the scant turnout. There are more bodies in the procession than there are spectators, making it feel somber, rather than celebratory. I'd planned on bowing out after the bridge ceremony, but given the circumstances I decide to bear witness to the whole thing. My dad is a veteran. Someone has to show up. I ride up River St. ahead of the procession to Highland Cemetery whose stoic iron gates I've run past hundreds of times. I've always meant to explore the grounds, but somehow haven't made the time since I moved here.
I love cemeteries. They are places of respect where all residents are basically on the same level. The most elaborate mausoleum has no real advantage over the humblest headstone. Everyone's journey is over and their remains are all mixed together among the shady hardwoods, watched over by the same squirrels and birds. I ride down a lane past the groundskeeper's barn and feel a flash of yearning to make that my profession. I'd keep a good cemetery. But, they don't need my help. Highland is a gorgeous and well-maintained place.
After the speeches and ceremony around the Civil War memorial I wander back to my bike leaning against a giant oak. A small banner with Lionel Richie's face on it and a "Hello" caption is planted next to a nearby headstone. Humor reminds the living we are alive. As I'm wheeling towards the exit I see in the distance a young girl in rollerblades careening down one of the blacktop lanes, arms windmilling. She cruises onto the grass and somehow recovers her balance, no harm done. Her father and dog follow unhurried down the hill behind her.