Weeknotes: May 25–29, 2026

Monday, May 25

It's Memorial Day, the symbolic launch of American summertime. The weekend's cool rain is replaced by abundant sunshine. I take apart, then reassemble the contents of my shed, listening to the Grateful Dead and drinking strong coffee. It takes about three hours, but is so satisfying to have done. 

Next, I butcher my first watermelon of the year and pack its red cubes into a Tupperware container for my neighbors' cookout. The house on the opposite side is also having a party, which spills onto my lawn. Everyone looks so happy, the neighborhood exhales vibrancy.

Across the street, a converted shuttle bus with two bikes strapped to its rear is parked. Its passenger entrance is wooden house door with a large 15-pane window, brass doorknob, and dead bolt. A band van or nomadic workers? I sit on a lawn chair in my neighbors' backyard, drinking beer and chatting with friends. Around, and sometimes between us, kids play football. At about eight o'clock I make my exit, citing a drained social battery.

Tuesday, May 26

At the end of a long day, I put on Bucky Pizzarelli's 1972 jazz album, Green Guitar Blues. I don't even remember buying this record, but it's become a consistent favorite over the years. It's a hushed last call of an album with a relaxed pace that masks Bucky's technical brilliance. I realize I know almost nothing about him, aside from his effortless fretwork. 

A bit of research uncovers an astonishing 70+, year career including stints in Benny Goodman's band, the Tonight Show Band, multiple appearances at the White House, and sideman dates with everyone from Tony Bennett and Rosemary Clooney to Paul McCartney. I also learn that his teenage daughter, Mary Pizzarelli, appears as a second guitarist on several songs. Apparently, Bucky was still gigging into the late-2010s before dying from COVID-19 in 2020. He was 94. Suddenly, this album means even more to me. 

Wednesday, May 27

Leanne Shapton

It’s open swim at Buhr Park Pool. Stepping off the cement lip, I plunge my winter body into the deep end and remain there for about ten seconds, enjoying the sensory explosion. When I break the surface, I am a summer person. 

A group of kids splashes around the other end, their sun-hatted mothers reclining above in chaise longues. After a few laps, I find my own chaise and read The Swimmer, Patrick Barkham's biography of Roger Deakin. Page 155 and, so far, he's done precious little swimming. It's the late-'70s, and “Freaky Deaky” is a maverick teacher of sixth form English, disrupting young minds in rural Norfolk . He has already bought and restored Walnut Tree Farm, with its spring-fed moat, but the aqueous pursuits he wrote about in Waterlog are still two decades away. I think of Leanne Shapton's Swimming Studies, which so enchanted me over the winter. This is her world: chlorinated, civic, orderly. 

An hour later I walk barefoot across the pavement, towel wrapped around my waist. I leave my shoes and bag in the car, and make my way up the gentle slope of grass opposite the parking lot. Finding my summer mind gets harder each year. There are so many distractions and obstacles to prevent laying in the grass watching ants, bees, and clouds. Like anything worth doing, leisure takes work.

Thursday, May 28

The cleaning crew arrives to give Apt. 2 a freshening before the new tenant moves in. I find Islay lying underneath their truck in the driveway. Its owner, Eric, and I for a while about dogs and running. He ran his first half marathon earlier in the year and on a whim, made a last-minute entry to the Dexter-Ann Arbor Run, this Sunday. I've run this race a few times and it's a beautiful course, mostly following scenic Huron River Drive, before finishing on Main Street in downtown Ann Arbor. Just before the finish, around mile 12.5, is a cruel uphill segment — they make you work for that medal. Eric says he's interested in running a full marathon, but has some fear about the distance. This guy is ten years younger than me and clearly fit. I urge him to give it a try. "Find somewhere you want to visit and see if they have a marathon. Make it a destination. It's the best way to learn about a new place!"

An evening walk takes me up Forest, past the Highscope building and into the alley that connects to Oak Street. I'm always looking for hidden passages. To my left are expansive backyards, heavily ferned, with hidden gardens, swingsets, and tidy sheds. I turn left on Oak and come across a friendly tabby cat lounging on the sidewalk. He immediately sticks his butt in the air to be scratched, then rolls around in the dust while we visit. When I leave, he starts to follow. "Uh-uh, buddy. You live here." 

Friday, May 29

In late afternoon, I drive out to Brighton to house-sit for my parents. After feeding their dogs, I head into town and spontaneously swerve into St. Pat's Cemetery to visit my friend Tony's grave. It's a columbarium, actually — I had to look that word up. I remember being here six years ago, during the heart of the pandemic. I skipped the mass, but attended the burial. After placing his ashes in the compartment, the priest ceremonially released a pair of white doves which I thought really had nothing to do with Tony's weird spirit. They roosted in a tree about 50 yards away. I asked the priest about them after the service, and he said he'd collect them later. They were professional funeral doves.

I browse the other names on the bank of markers and am shocked at how many I know. A former teacher, familiar business owners, parents of close friends whose houses I spent many hours at when I was young. Some are already gone, some still living, but preceded by a spouse.

Before I go, I turn my attention back to Tony and say "Hit it, Bobby." It's one one of several thousand inside jokes I could have shared, known to a just a scant few of his creative disciples. I have never laughed harder than I did with Tony. He was a comic giant. An exceptional talent few will ever know about. In my car I dial up Fireplace Faces, a Spotify mix my brother made of all the songs Tony loved when we were growing up. Lots of Rush, Steely Dan, Gordon Lightfoot, and Styx. I roll down my windows, hit shuffle, and let Mötley Crüe's "Girls, Girls, Girls" ring out across the headstones. "Life is short," I yell. "Have fun while you can!