Weeknotes: June 23–27, 2025
Monday, June 23
It's a Field Notes field trip. Those who know me know of my love for this brand and their wondrous little notebooks which I carry with me everywhere I go. For years I've wanted to make a pilgrimage to their Chicago headquarters and today is my day. They are having an open house ahead of their “first, and likely only” film festival tonight at the Music Box Theatre and I've convinced Greg to join me on this road trip which kicked off yesterday at Wrigley Field. The Cubs lost in a 6-14 home run derby against Seattle. The heat was brutal, but it was a bucket list venue for both of us, as was the Sunday night jazz show at the Green Mill.
I open the Futura-branded black metal door at 401 Racine and am immediately greeted by owner Jim Coudal. I think I expected a brisker turnout of fellow Field Nuts, but am pleasantly surprised by the casual scene. After browsing some rarity editions, we hang out with Field Notes creator Aaron Draplin, a fellow Michigander now based in Portland, Oregon. I met him once before back in February when he did a demo at the Ann Arbor District Library. It turned out he was a Great Lakes Myth Society fan, so Greg and I present him with one of our dwindling vinyl copies of Compass Rose Bouquet. His mom, who lives not far from my own parents, is also there and we chat with her about politics and our favorite Northern Michigan spots. I also meet Bryan Bedell, a fellow music head and founder of the Vespa Club of Chicago, who is also one of Field Notes' designers. It's all so warm and convivial and I leave with an even greater affection for the company.
At the film festival later that night, they screen 31 of the short films they've made to launch their quarterly special editions. The room is lively and I feel at home among these like minded enthusiasts of esoterica. Aaron and Jim introduce the first set of films, many of which I've already seen as part of their newsletter announcements over the years. During intermission Bryan and filmmaker Steve Delahoyde crack jokes, then invite the 400+ attendees to join them at a nearby bar afterward. Having graciously enjoyed some facetime with them earlier, we decline and have a low-key nightcap at the Gman Tavern a few blocks east.
Tuesday, June 24
Greg and I take leave of our hosts in Andersonville and step out into the furnace of Clark Street, a morass of construction, stalled traffic, and pedestrians more accustomed to summer in the city. Over coffee and a banana nut muffin a few blocks south, I realize I've forgotten both my phone and notebook (gasp!) and have to hoof it back to find our hosts who have apparently already been out looking for me. Mercifully, we manage to connect at their front door and the drama is short-lived.
Lakeshore Drive is relatively serene, but I-94 south of the city is its usual nightmare. After white-knuckling it for 90 minutes, we recuperate over an early lunch in Michigan City. Storm cells plague us from Kalamazoo back home to Ypsilanti where I deposit Greg, then head back west to Saline to fetch Islay from K's house. For a moment after I walk in the door, it's as if she doesn't quite recognize me, but when she does it's the sweetest greeting. I've only been gone two days, but her enthusiasm at seeing me makes me choke up. The power of a dog's love cannot be overstated.
Wednesday, June 25
94% humidity. My forearms stick to the clammy surface of my old wooden desk. Since my long run last Friday, I've missed four days of training and have to force myself out the door for a 7-miler before the afternoon storms arrive. It's not as tough as I feared — I'm still buoyed by positive vibes from the Chicago trip. I look up Bryan Bedell's work outside of Field Notes and discover his letterpress business, Midwest Ephemera, which also specializes in lettering for old jukeboxes. It’s all in my bailwick and I place a mail order for his Forensic Design zine.
In the evening I rehearse for my weekend gig. My pitch seems to be returning. Last week, my voice felt stale and adrift, but my practice regimen seems to have brought it back to life. I play my Danelectro 12-string which is sounding great, but seems to have an intermittent short somewhere. I switch cables to no avail, and then try my Telecaster which works just fine. Damn it. I was hoping to use the 12-string at the gig. I might have to go all acoustic.
Thursday, June 26
Morning Glory Report: The Grandpa Ott is the first to reach the top of the fence. I wind its furry tendrils around the wire I've strung from the fence to the side of the shed, encouraging its progress skyward.
The raspberries are heading into their prime. I walk barefoot through the wet grass, which sticks to my ankles, and pick some for my oatmeal. The morning is cool enough to turn off the AC and open up the windows for a few hours.
A thunderstorm chases me down during the last leg of my run. I seek shelter under the awning of a nearby apartment block's administrative office and stand bedraggled and miserable in front of its glass door. Feeling exposed, I slink down under the eave and around the corner with the brick wall at my back and a shrub blocking me from view. In the pool behind the office I hear kids splashing and laughing. Part of me wishes I was in there too, while my adult self admonishes them for swimming during a thunderstorm.
Friday, June 27
Outside the Mexican grocer a little girl shrieks. Her mother gently guides her across the hot pavement, holding an umbrella over her head to block the sun. Inside I buy ten limes, a can of coconut water, and a 32oz. bottle of Modelo. As I pass through downtown Dexter a gray wall of weather overtakes me. Rain gushes and the wind rattles the hardy old oaks as I drive out into farm country. In Jack's barn we eat catfish tacos and I drink my cerveza with lime out of an enamel cup. It's a small gathering of close friends, most of us artists of one discipline or another. Lauren has her studio out in the barn and she sends me home with a small oil painting of a late summer landscape.
Both eastbound highway ramps are closed, so I end up taking a less efficient, but prettier route home. There are so many deer in my periphery, all seemingly one fatal leap from intersecting with my headlights. I drive slowly through the phosphorescent tide of fireflies, windows down, summer pouring in like deep water.