Weeknotes: April 8-12, 2024
Monday, April 8
Midday, driving south down the backroads of Monroe County. Apparently I'm not the only one making a last ditch sojourn to Toledo to watch the solar eclipse in its totality. What should be an hour's drive takes nearly two and a half and I'm not sure if I'll even make it by the astrological deadline at 3:12 PM. In a driveway near Ida two women in lawn chairs facing a hop garden look skyward through welding masks. I listen to NPR's special coverage of the eclipse's progress across North America, feeling solidarity with all the other umbraphiles chasing this once-in-a-generation event. The sky darkens and I approach the Ohio state line with only about 20 minutes until showtime. I'm fully prepared to pull over wherever I am even if it's on the shoulder of I-75, though I'd prefer not to. Despite the eclipse traffic (a term I'd never considered until today), I'm enjoying the adventure and at 3:05 I’m racing south on Summit St., blasting Holst's "Mars: Bringer of War" at top volume, windows down, cackling like an idiot. With just minutes to spare I arrive at Cullen Park on Lake Erie's westernmost point, where a crowd of hundreds is already celebrating. Skidding into a beer & bait drive-thru, I invent a parking spot, grab my dark glasses, and hop across the street to lay in the grass, leaning my back against the park's blue boat launch sign. As the disc of the moon slots dramatically into place, erasing the final thumbnail of orange, I remove my glasses and stare bare-eyed and dumbstruck at what looks like a gaping black hole in the sky. It’s absolutely astounding. The crowd erupts in joyful applause as the temperature drops and together we share nearly two minutes of unified wonder. I can’t believe I’d considered skipping this. Despite spending most of the day in my car this is so fucking worth it!
Tuesday, April 9
I heave the lawn mower into my hatchback and take it to the hardware store for spring servicing. A pleasant odor of old dried grass permeates the car as I drive the few blocks, taking the secret locals-only route Donald taught me. I pick up four packets of morning glory seeds, all different strains, which I'll soak overnight in shot glasses before sowing indoors for a few weeks. Growing morning glories from seed is one of my favorite annual traditions and I'll spend the summer months training them along little avenues of twine on my back fence.
In Brighton I help my dad sand the floor of his office. It’s part of a vigorous remodel he’s undertaking and I think he underestimated the amount of labor it would take. It's hard work even for me and I worry about his back when I'm not around. We pause for gin and tonics on the patio, soaking ourselves in the warm April sun. Islay is always delighted to visit her grandparents and their two dogs. She hops the fence twice, but doesn't range far. Both times I find her casually sniffing shrubs along the wooded easement trail and gently corral her back inside the fence. She offers no resistance and happily bounds inside. It's one of the few places she can run around off-leash and I'm happy whenever I can bring her here for a visit.
Wednesday, April 10
I wake from a dream about baseball. Sanctioned MLB merchandise had become very expensive and exclusive, not to mention eclectic. I was carrying a team-emblazoned scythe through the ballpark on a sunny afternoon like a ghoul.
After work I spend most of the evening outdoors. I find some old plastic planting trays behind the shed to sow my morning glory seeds in then create identification posts out of old sticks so I'll know which vines are which. I use my hatchet to spike the bottoms then shave a flat section on the side of each stake where I paint the names of this year's varieties. The starting roster for spring 2024 is: Heavenly Blue, Celestial Mixed, Scarlett O'Hara, and Flying Saucers. I usually get a Grandpa Ott (because I actually had a Great-grandpa Ott), but none were available at the store and I didn't feel like driving around town searching for a single seed packet. Ott, you’re on the bench this year.
During my odyssey to Toledo for Monday's eclipse I reconnected with Gustav Holst's always-inspiring Planets Suite. On my evening run I listen to an adaptation of "Jupiter: Bringer of Jollity" by Spanish pianist Alejandro Clavijo. It's a melody that always makes me feel emotional and as the orchestra swells I can't tell if I'm crying a little or just sweating. Either way, I run faster. Running back down River St. I listen to two more favorites, the Caravelles' "Hey Mama, You've Been on My Mind" and Fairport Convention's "Rising For the Moon." They make me want to run five more miles. Instead I head home, pour a beer, and weed my back stoop.
Thursday, April 11
The April drear returns. It’s a sodden day in the yard, street, and head. I muddle through as I must, tackling tasks with little enthusiasm. Head in her paws, Islay feels the same.
Spirits are revived at band practice where we run sloppily through the set, but in a reassuring way. It means we've finally played these songs enough to do a bit of daydreaming. I'm especially punchy and laugh my way through most of the night. What a tonic friends are. We add a new song and learn it the old fashioned way. I strum and yell out the chords. We go linear and just plow through it over and over until an arrangement starts to take shape. I'd sent out a barebones demo last week, but the work is all done here in the room together. I feel so happy I barely notice the rain on my drive home.
Friday, April 12
The Friday morning text thread is popping. MJ sends a photo of the spoon he has jammed into his minivan's steering column to activate the windshield wipers and it sets off a mass-sharing of everyone's old car stories. Jammed windows, jammed doors, jammed ignitions, no mirrors, permanently honking horns, it's a wonder we're all still alive.
On Instagram I learn that today is National Grilled Cheese Day. As with horoscopes, I only pay attention to these holidays when they appeal to me and now I want a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. The Golden Egg is an old school diner on Washtenaw Ave. in an ancient strip mall called Squire's Plaza (Old English lettering, of course). Across the street is a Taco Bell and miniature golf course. I've driven by it hundreds of times. At the lunch counter I squeeze in between two silent men drinking coffee, no phones, no newspapers, just endless refills and their inner lives. I've brought my paperback copy of Marlen Haushofer's devastating dystopian novel The Wall . I have 20 pages left and am apprehensive about finishing it in a public space. Two important deaths have been foreshadowed throughout the book and I'm afraid I'll get emotional, sitting between these two taciturn men. I read the last chapter over my grilled cheese and fries and do get a little emotional, though not tearful. It's heavy, but the author has spread her sorrow so expertly throughout the rest of the book that when it arrives, the fatal scene is mercifully short and surprisingly matter-of-fact. In the end, I'm glad I read it amid a boisterous locals-only lunch crowd. I step out into the wind and rain and drive home to hug my dog.