Weeknotes: July 1-5, 2024
Some weeks words don’t come easy. I’m settling for brevity this week. Quicknotes, 100 words or less, which is rather fitting, given my opinion of July.
Monday, July 1
I feel frustrated. Nothing big, just in a general sort of way. 20 years ago I released my first solo album, Summer Cherry Ghosts. I'd meant to write an elaborate post celebrating its anniversary, but just can't seem to summon the energy. Every year July arrives with great expectations, but I never seem to meet them. Honestly, it's one of my least favorite months of the year. Here is an empurpled essay I wrote about that album several years ago.
Tuesday, July 2
After my run I stand at the kitchen counter eating chunks of icy watermelon with a fork and talking to my mom on speakerphone. We've got family coming to town this weekend and have outings to plan. Later, I show up for my eye exam only to be reminded they had rescheduled for next week. I drive over to the guitar shop looking for D'Addario nickel bronze strings, but they don't stock the gauge I use (custom light .011 - .052). I guess it’s just not my day.
Wednesday, July 3
Ever since reading Mary Oliver's Dog Songs, I've remembered the line "How many summers does a little dog have?" from her poem, Percy Six. Because of this, I make sure to take Islay swimming as often as possible. Parker Mill is our special spot and offers easy access to a shallow stretch of Fleming Creek, perfect for splashing dogs and wading humans. Tonight I invite J & J so Islay can meet their new puppy Fern. Despite the ten year age gap, I think they are going to be buddies.
Thursday, July 4
I'm at Murray Lake, a private swimming club north of town. My bandmate Mary is a member and invited me when I saw her at the 4th of July parade this morning. Just past the security gate is a folding table where two men are selling homemade beeswax candles. After paying a modest guest fee, I drive past the old farm house and freshly harvested wheat field. In the distance is a row of cars and a ridge, beyond which must be the lake.
Friday, July 5
Walking home in the pre-storm twilight, I pause on the Forest St. bridge to admire the Huron pushing its way south past Frog Island. Two of my cousins are in town and the whole family just met up for dinner and drinks, ending at Andy's still-unnamed bar in Depot Town. I lean over the rail to take this photo and moments later am cat-called by a passing minivan. It's my family, driving back to Brighton.