Weeknotes: September 21–25, 2026
Monday, September 21
"I'm turning on the heat!" My upstairs neighbor and I share a thermostat; domestic climate control is achieved through texts.
Technically, it's the last day of summer, but the weather is giving off late-October vibes. I take a break from work to mow the lawn, shifting from vertical stripes to an angled pattern midway through, just to shake things up. I feel like I don't have enough spontaneity in my life right now.
At 4 p.m., I stop by a meet-and-greet happy hour at the Observer. I'm greeted at the back door by Bug, the editor-in-chief's Boston terrier. Staff and freelancers mingle and drink kombucha spiked with tequila (TK).* There is pizza, and someone brought pimento cheese, which I spread on my leftover crusts, a delicious combo I've somehow never tried before.
After extracating myself, I navigate rush hour traffic, and arrive home just in time to log in to my 6 p.m. history class. We learn about the French-Indian War, which I am reminded was not between French colonizers and Indians, but between European rivals France and England.
* This is a journalistic pun — editors use the initials TK as a placeholder, meaning "to come." At the Observer, it also stands for tequila and kombucha.
Tuesday, September 22
Returning home from a run, I find a vintage postcard in my mailbox. It looks like it's from the late-'50s or early-'60s, with two panels of the Whittmore Hotel, one showing its blocky exterior and the other its cozy mid-century lounge. A description on the back reads: When visiting Michigan's "North Country" let us contribute to your pleasure.
It's from Nick, next door. I invite him to join me for an evening bonfire to celebrate the autumn equinox. He walks over carrying two hefty German liter mugs into which we pour Canadian beers I bought at the LCBO in Sarnia last week. "Prost!" we shout. Islay roams the backyard eating dried grass clumps until I send her inside.
Wednesday, September 23
"Nice coveralls."
"Thanks," I laugh. "I'm trying them out."
"They're good. You look very serious."
Standing in our shared driveway, my neighbors and I discuss the new parking lot makeover in Depot Town. I walked through Frog Island earlier in the day and noted the progress. A small bulldozer sat idling beside the emerging pathway, its driver a few yards away spreading gravel with a shovel. He was the only worker on site, and I felt tempted to say something banal like "looks good" or "nice work on this," but held my tongue and walked on.
Several old cottonwoods that stood beside the river portage have been removed to make way for a concrete access ramp. I'm not too broken-hearted over their loss. It's a welcome bit of infrastructure that will improve the park, and their absence only slightly alters my view from the center of the Forest Avenue Bridge.
Thursday, September 24
I look at the clock: 8:20 a.m. Do I have enough time to ride my bike to class?
I hustle to gather up my things, pour some coffee in a flask, and am out the door ten minutes later. It’s a quintessential September morning, bright and crisp, but telegraphing afternoon warmth. Yellow leaves flutter in the air as I cut behind the football stadium toward Hewitt Rd. At the intersection of paths by the intramural fields, I find a mirror leaning against the embankment. If you come across a mirror in a place where mirrors usually aren't, always investigate — it's probably a portal.
Friday, September 25
After a meal of won ton noodle soup and stout beer, we walk over to the Soft Projects gallery to see Avery Williamson’s Notes / Lists / Reminders show. I remember her post on Instagram a while back, requesting submissions, but forgot to contribute. An archive of personal paper scraps is very much in my wheelhouse. The notes make a pleasing visual grid, revealing small domestic details about strangers I’ll never meet and probably a few people I know, but can’t identify by their handwriting.
Outside, a full moon is rises — it’s the Mid-Autumn Festival. We walk back to our block, eat mooncakes, and examine an old 3D raised relief map of Canada. Then I walk across the driveway to my own house and text my neighbors: “Made it home safe.”