Weeknotes: March 10–14, 2025

Monday March 10

The day rises bright and clear, an hour later than it's supposed to. Daylight Savings has begun and even though I enjoy the brighter evenings, it makes the mornings feel rushed. I put Grace Jones' Nightclubbing on the turntable and dive into Monday stuff. 

CC sends me my horoscope from an app she uses: 

Timothy Monger wants to push the limits today. Distract the museum guards while they kiss a painting.

I spend the afternoon with some co-workers volunteering at a local food bank. We sort giant bags of carrots and pack up about 120 boxes of dry goods. It's satisfying labor, but I wouldn't say I pushed my limits. Mostly, I just feel tired and can't figure out why. It's 65° and sunny when I get home. I sit in a camp chair in the yard finishing out my workday. To my left Islay assumes her customary position at the foot of the driveway, already in warm-weather mode.

March is a tricky month. You get warm days like this, but the sun is not itself. It's harsher and more unrelenting, glaring over dead lawns strewn with winter's detritus.

Here are some nice birds I've already seen this week:

Bald Eagle
Pileated Woodpecker
Harlequin Duck

Tuesday March 11

A day of unexplained exhaustion. Is it the shift in weather? Daylight Savings? Long Covid reminding of its existence? 

I slog through the workday, then class. Before heading home I have three unavoidable errands to run. At the supermarket, Ratt's "Round and Round" plays over the P.A. I'm ten miles from home, but it feels like 1000. Every aisle feels like a dead end. I want to just ease my seat back and fall asleep in my car.

At home I feed Islay her dinner and immediately lay down. I can't understand how a 20 minute nap can wield such awesome power. It's not like Popeye after his spinach, but it's certainly more restorative than it has any right to be. I rally for a couple beers and a backyard fire with my neighbors.

Wednesday March 12

The fatigue continues. This time it's Howard Jones singing "Things Can Only Get Better" on the turntable while I cycle through assignments and wait for an important shipment requiring my signature. FedEx has failed to find me at home two days in a row and if I don't get it today, it will be sent back to the company. I chance a 30 minute walk with Islay, but otherwise stay put and work diligently all day.

Over lunch I read Jerry Dennis' harrowing account of the 1967 Coho Salmon Fishing Disaster. The successfully re-established salmon fishery yielded epic runs in Lake Michigan that summer, inspiring amateur anglers from around the country to head north and take part in "Coho Fever." While in-the-know locals like Dennis and his family fished their share, hoards of tourists with little or no big water experience launched boats of all shapes and sizes from the Platte River out into a lake known for its unpredictable turns.

It all came to a head on September 23 when hundreds of boaters failed to heed the Coast Guard's small craft warning and sailed out into a simmering squall. When the storm inevitably hit, over 150 small boats were swamped and capsized and many more beached haphazardly as locals tried their best to rescue the inexperienced sailors. Dennis, 14 at the time, helplessly watched two men drown only 100 feet from shore during a failed rescue attempt.

Thursday March 13

A parcel mistakenly arrives for the previous tenant of my house who is also my friend. It's in a plastic mail bag which I place into a shoebox and seal with packing tape. I'll mail it out to her on my way to class. WEMU is playing a block of Joni Mitchell songs beginning with her velvety cover of Etta James' "At Last." I pull into a strip mall in front of Goin' Postal, a national shipping chain whose cheeky name has somehow dodged cancellation for decades. I'm in a rush and both of Ypsi's post offices are in the opposite direction. 

I turn off the car, interrupting Joni, only to meet her again when I open the shop door. Goin' Postal supports their local NPR station. A soft spoken man serves the guests ahead of me and I gaze around the shabby room, noting the bank of ornate brass mailboxes boxes, above which are three clocks labeled New York, London, and Tokyo. I love seeing these relics from the heyday of globalization, when bustling old-timey newsrooms needed to know time zones around the globe. 

These clocks are still, each one bearing the time of its own demise. I doubt any of them have seen a battery in years. The song changes to a jazzy cover of "Big Yellow Taxi" and I surrender my shoebox to the clerk. 

Friday March 14

My A-Z vinyl census has reached the Ks. I spend an easy morning with Louisa Killen, King Creosote, and Carole King. Coming up are a bunch of Knack records I inherited from an old friend who sold off his entire record collection before moving to Los Angeles. We haven't talked in a long time, but I get the impression he's living a pretty nice life out there. 

During a Zoom department meeting we discuss the company's intention to move to Microsoft Teams. Nobody is happy about it. The sun is out and it's approaching 70°. I wonder how many people called in sick or skipped class today. It's still a week until the equinox, but I bet golf courses are doing brink business right now. Later, my brother invites me over for a backyard cookout, but refuses to light the fire pit. "We're not open yet."

When I get home I watch the season opener of Top Chef which is based this year in Canada. What an apppropriate time to appreciate our neighbors to the north. How we’ve disprected you as of late. It’s shameful.