Weeknotes: June 8–13, 2026
Monday, June 8
I waited too long to start my run. It's 5:30, and the air is stifling as I head up Forest toward campus. On Lowell, a green Subaru beeps acknowledgment. It's Annie. Her birthday was yesterday. A mile later on Hamilton, two musicians, tenor sax and drums, play hard bop through an open window. East down Spring, and over the bridge past Huron Landing, I detour to avoid a family of geese on the sidewalk, their five goslings still in fuzzy adolescence.
The peppy chiptune announcement of an ice cream truck looms behind me. As the driver pulls abreast, he leans out his window and hollers "Whassuuuup!" I'm tempted to flag him down — maybe I could stick my head in his freezer. When I catch up with him at the intersection of Prospect and Cross, his speaker begins playing Beethoven's “Für Elise.”
Home is a relief. I sit at my table with a towel around my neck eating cold watermelon. Out the kitchen window, my 12-year-old neighbor feeds bread crusts to a mallard who has wandered into our driveway.
Tuesday, June 9
In June 2002, I took a meandering month-long road trip through New England and the Maritime Provinces. My travel journal tells me that on June 9, I spent the morning wandering around the market buildings in Boston's North End. I wasn't as comprehensive a note-taker as I am now, but this little detail sticks out.
There is an old man drawing a face on a pink balloon across from me. I wonder who it's for?
Then, a little later…
The old man got up and left the pink balloon tied to the table. A little girl came over and retrieved it. She smiled when she saw the face on it and showed it to her mom.
In the afternoon I went to a game at Fenway Park, and sat on a wooden bench seat, watching the Diamondbacks beat the Red Sox 8–3. I marvelled at the ballpark's quirky dimensions and antiquated technology.
The entire structure is red brick and green-painted metal and wood. The scoreboard has just five lights: three that indicate the ball count and two for strikes. The rest are just numbers on blocks that roll mechanically to tell what inning it is and how many hits and runs have been made. It's small and intimate and you get the feeling that the game could be happening just fine without electricity.
I also couldn't understand why my hot dog bun had the sides shaved off. It was my first New England (split-top) bun. I would eat many more as I headed further north and discovered lobster rolls throughout Maine, New Brunswick, and Nova Scotia. After the game, I drove up to Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and was swept up in the romance of its busy little harbor and my idealization of all things maritime.
At 7:12 PM, over dinner and a Smuttynose Lager at the Stockpot, I wrote:
I wonder where I'm going to sleep tonight. It's too late to find a campsite and a hotel is too expensive. I'll probably sleep in the car at a truck stop if I can find one. What I really want to do is bar hop in Portsmouth all night and fall asleep on a park bench.
You're only 24 once. I took no further notes of where I ended up that night, but vaguely remember joining up with some jolly revelers at a karaoke bar. I managed to avoid the park bench, and at dawn awoke in the back seat of my Jeep on a little side street, either still drunk, or so enchanted by my adventure that the expected hangover was of no consequence.
I stumbled out of my car into a pink and lavender sky. As I walked through the quiet streets, the only other person up was the paperboy. I followed the sunrise and signs to Strawberry Banke down on the waterfront, and watched some early boats leaving, and gulls calling and swooping in the sun. I had a wonderful sense of rightness and well-being. I didn't want to be anywhere else at that time.
Wednesday, June 10
Getting a shoutout in Field Notes' monthly newsletter feels invalidating. Last month, I shared with them my Staple Day spread (1943 Limited Edition, Yellow), then forgot all about it until reading "Timothy from Ypsilanti sent us a rare glimpse into Staple Days of past generations." So far, I've filled 11 notebooks this year. Yeserday, I started my 12th (Rex Brasher Limited Edition, Baltimore Oriole).
Their newsletter also mentions Field Notes' ongoing partnership with Robert MacFarlane, whose books I have loved since discovering Landmarks about ten years ago. He has re-entered my consciousness by way of The Swimmer, Patrick Barkham's biography of Roger Deakin, author of the wild swimming classic, Waterlog. I'm nearing the end of the book, which means Deakin is nearing the end of his life. In the penultimate chapter, MacFarlane writes:
Roger rang me to ask whether I would become his literary executor. I said yes, of course, and that was the closest we came to talking about him dying.
Deakin died from an inoperable brain tumor on August 19, 2006. The only reason I know about him is through Robert MacFarlane's books. That chain of discovery is one of my favorite things about reading. MacFarlane’s bibliography also led me to Audrey Sutherland who became an instant favorite. One thing leads to another.
Midweek Yard Report:
My prickly pear cactus is having a moment. It has sprouted a dozen new bright green pads.
The morning glories have been slow to establish themselves this year. Only the Blue Picotee has produced a tall enough vine to to reach its respective wire along the back fence.
The tiny pawpaw tree is growing fruit, while five feet away, its much larger partner remains fruitless.
The raspberry bushes are also fruiting, still pale, but with a blush of red.
The mulberry tree above the driveway is shedding its own pale, mostly unripe berries, assisted by chittering squirrels, which are squished into the dirt by tires and feet. The berries, I mean, not the squirrels.
The trumpet flower vine is going crazy next to the porch. I've already had to trim it back several times.
Thursday, June 11
In the evening I walk up to the Dreamland Theater to attend a surprise party for two friends who share the same birthday. A magician has been hired. He does some sleight of hand work and perplexing mentalist tricks, but I'm most impressed by his adaptive stagecraft. After a couple early clunkers, he figures out the tone of the room (rowdy/skeptical), pivots, and gets everyone laughing. In our heavily-edited world of content, it's a pleasure to watch a professional work a live crowd.
Friday, June 12
David Hockney has died. Before this year, I knew him by name only, filed ambiently under the mental subheading, Important Artist. Last month, while I was reading Modern Nature, Derek Jarman referred to him several times, so I did some investigation and realized I was already aware of Hockney's famous California swimming pool paintings. They lined up with my recent interest in pools, which had been sparked a month earlier by Leanne Shapton's brilliant memoir, Swimming Studies. Over lunch today, I finish reading the Deakin biography, which is called The Swimmer. Later, I work in my shed, building a small toy boat out of scrapwood, which I plan to launch on the Huron River near my house. One thing leads to another. Water is life.
Saturday, June 13
The College Heights Neighborhood Yard Sale, sibling to Normal Park’s. Less robust than last year, but still a decent haul:
Seven issues of National Geographic Magazine for Collaging (Recent Vintage) Free
Samsung Blu-Ray Player (w/ Remote) $5.00
Large Collection of Vintage Matchbooks (Bought from Original Owner) $10.00
TOTAL: $15.00
