Weeknotes: July 14–18, 2025

Monday, July 14 

The aggressive plant growing up the side of my house is a trumpet vine. I didn't plant it, but I've watched it multiply over the past few years until it finally produced a series of red trumpet-like blossoms. I didn't know what it was until I saw those same flowers in the community garden at Frog Island Park and finally looked it up. At least it’s native.

Through the haze of Canadian wildfire smoke I walk up to a brewpub to read my Icelandic detective novel in which the characters are suffering similarly smoky skies from a volcanic eruption. Up the gravel track through Frog Island, a man is stretching his legs on the soccer pitch and blasting Latin music from a boombox. At the other end a group of kids are sitting cross-legged on the concrete amphitheatre stage. Apart from the smog, it's a perfectly lazy summer night in Ypsilanti. I think about how happy I've been living in this town over the past four years. 

Inside the brewery a man is speaking to a packed house. A keyboardist sits behind him. I order a beer and ask the bartender what's up. "It's opera night. We're actually closed for a private event, but I'll serve you." The man begins singing and I escape out the side door to sit in the little beer garden overlooking a very subdued Depot Town. Two tables away a woman is quietly crocheting some type of garment. Otherwise, the place is deserted. I read my book and people-watch. A train passes. A mezzo soprano threatens the glass window. There’s a round of applause. It’s a soothing blend of sounds.

Walking home along the ridge I notice how low the river is. Out in the thigh-deep channel a fly fisherman casts his line. To my right, down in the park, two dogs run full tilt across the fresh cut grass. 

Tuesday, July 15

Another air quality alert. My last run was on Saturday morning, a punitive 16 mile slog that seemed to last 16 years. I hated it. The wildfire smoke seems to be on a similar trajectory, lingering over Southeast Michigan on its way to further gum up our beleaguered atmosphere. The contentment I felt last night segues into anxiety while I work indoors with the house buttoned up tight. I weigh my options — go ahead with my intended training mileage and increase my risk of respiratory/cardiovascular damage, or wait it out and hope the rest of the summer is fresher. I look into a monthlong membership at my school's rec center. I could lap the small indoor track a hundred times or worse yet, run eight miles on a treadmill. I might be able to handle the monotony of the track, but the treadmill is a soul-killer. I'm a creature of the road. 

Wednesday, July 16

I carry the inkwell to the kitchen counter and make a mess of refilling my Kaweco fountain pen's converter. I use copper-colored ink in this one — the hand-turned cherry wood pen my dad built me always gets black. I've used the cherry pen for about 25 years and it is one of the most precious objects in my possession. It never leaves the house. I fear someday its barrel will crack and it will become just a pretty, but unusable heirloom on my shelf. But a pen is a tool and I still use it all the time. The Kaweco Sport is much lighter and made of black plastic. It writes smoothly, but has less gravity and certainly less history than the wooden pen which was made from a tree I used to climb as a child. 

A few years ago my mom presented me a small box containing several pens that belonged to her father, James R. Robertson. There was also a rubber stamp of his signature, which I adore, but it is of little practical use. For posterity, here it is, my granddad’s John Hancock.

I think at least one of the pens can be rehabilitated, but I have yet to track down the replacement parts. Maybe it’s a project for winter. I'm not a collector of fountain pens by any means, and my handwriting is distinctive, but boderline illegible to most people. Still, I love to write in ink.

Thursday, July 17

The smoke/C02 alarm wakes me at 6:30 AM. I stumble into chaos, looking for a stool to stand on so I can pull it off the kitchen ceiling. Islay barks the whole time, freaking out. I manage to silence the alarm, but the red light continues to flash. I read the instructions on the back. Three beeps = smoke, four beeps = C02. Smoke, then.

I check all appliances, tour the basement and the now-vacant upstairs unit, but find nothing amiss. The piercing triplet resumes every five minutes, even when I leave it outside and I'm forced to break the tab and deactivate it permanently. It's probably faulty, but now how do I relax? 

The rest of the day is better but relentless. A ten mile morning run, the workday, a late afternoon solo gig at the Ann Arbor Art Fair, then home to tend to dog, self, and the neighbors' pets while they're on vacation. After that it's back out to band practice.

Friday, July 18

Day two of the Art Fair and the weather is perfect. It feels unnatural. I've been coming to this fair for most of my life and the conditions are always the same — punishing heat and/or humidity and some sort of near-catastrophic storm. Not so, today. I drop my amp off at the stage, then follow my instincts to a free parking spot in Kerrytown. It’s a bit of hike, but exorbitant Art Fair parking fees are for tourists and I want to see some of the fair on my way back to the stage. 

Tonight's gig is with Misty Lyn & the Big Beautiful, a band I play bass in. I've known Misty for at least 25 years and loved her music for just as long. I joined in 2022 and am the newest member of a familiar and tight-knit crew. Everyone in her band has at some point also been a member of my band. Mary and CC still are. It's been almost two years since we played a show together and I’m so happy to be on stage with these friends again. The show is a benefit for Johnny's Speakeasy, Ann Arbor's beloved underground venue which burned down during the pandemic. Everyone loves Johnny Williams.

We're the last act of the night and after we're done the stage closes up quickly along with all the surrounding artist booths. If I wait a few more minutes, I'll probably see a tumbleweed blow by. I find myself stranded with a heavy bass amp and my car at least a 20 minute walk away. I ask Judy the emcee if there's anywhere I can safely stow my gear while I run to get my car. Quick to the draw, she calls her son Ben to come pick me up. All I know is that he was apparently on standby, has a beard, and will meet me at the loading dock behind Burton Tower.

Ten minutes later my hero Ben and I are cruising west talking about graphic design, playing guitar, and being a townie. It's a brief, but sweet interaction and I'm so grateful I didn't have to lug this amp all the way across town. On the drive home I get FourthMeal. The drive-thru teller is now an automated AI, though it's still a human who hands me my value menu burrito and soft taco.

I take Islay for a late night walk and the neighborhood feels especially lively. We listen to a call-and-response volley of car horns a block away. 

"Beep beep"
"Beep beep"

"Beep be-beep-beep-beep"
"Beep be-beep-beep-beep"

"Beeeeeep be-beep"
"Beeeeeep be-beep"

"Be-beep… beep-beep."
"Be-beep… beep-beep"

"Beep be-be-beep-beep…"
"…beep-beep!"

The conversation goes on for nearly a minute and seems so jolly. I like it better than the usual emergency sirens and distant gun shots which I still prefer to think of as fireworks.