Weeknotes: May 27-31, 2024
Monday, May 27
Riding through Frog Island, I awkwardly balance a mug of coffee in one hand, its contents sloshing against the clear lid. The ratatat of a snare drum echoes across the amphitheater's bowl. At the confluence of pedestrian bridges under Cross St., I turn right, then walk my bike up the hill to meet the band. American Legion Post 282 has a tradition of pausing the Memorial Day Procession -- they are adamant about calling it a procession, not a parade -- in the middle of the bridge and honoring lost mariners by dropping flowers into the river below. I stand next to a group of curious Girl Scouts leaning over the cement barrier and listen to the volunteer band play a shaky hymn. After the selected Legionnaires and Daughters of the Revolution send their bouquets over the edge, the bandleader stands in his Chuck Taylors and blows "Taps" on his bugle. Thirty seconds later the three gun salute startles me and I'm clearly not alone.
Even though the parade is not well advertised, I feel ashamed by the scant turnout. There are more bodies in the procession than there are spectators, making it feel somber, rather than celebratory. I'd planned on bowing out after the bridge ceremony, but given the circumstances I decide to bear witness to the whole thing. My dad is a veteran. Someone has to show up. I ride up River St. ahead of the procession to Highland Cemetery whose stoic iron gates I've run past hundreds of times. I've always meant to explore the grounds, but somehow haven't made the time since I moved here.
I love cemeteries. They are places of respect where all residents are basically on the same level. The most elaborate mausoleum has no real advantage over the humblest headstone. Everyone's journey is over and their remains are all mixed together among the shady hardwoods, watched over by the same squirrels and birds. I ride down a lane past the groundskeeper's barn and feel a flash of yearning to make that my profession. I'd keep a good cemetery. But, they don't need my help. Highland is a gorgeous and well-maintained place.
After the speeches and ceremony around the Civil War memorial I wander back to my bike leaning against a giant oak. A small banner with Lionel Richie's face on it and a "Hello" caption is planted next to a nearby headstone. Humor reminds the living we are alive. As I'm wheeling towards the exit I see in the distance a young girl in rollerblades careening down one of the blacktop lanes, arms windmilling. She cruises onto the grass and somehow recovers her balance, no harm done. Her father and dog follow unhurried down the hill behind her.
Tuesday, May 28
Customer service is a value held in high esteem by my family. In the pre-Internet days, my dad was often the author of a strongly-worded letter to businesses whose service he felt wasn't up to snuff. He was also quick to offer praise for a job well done. By the time I joined the workforce as a record store clerk, you could bet I was ready with a smile and a "how can I help you?"
The crack in my windshield is spreading and I need to get it taken care of. I was hoping to nurse it for another week until my next paycheck, but with the rapidly shifting weather, I don't want to wake up to a car seat full of broken glass or worse, a lap-full while driving. I visit a well-reviewed collision shop a few miles down the road. A man in the lot directs me inside to get a quote. In the office another man fusses over a copy machine. Although his back is to me, I'm certain he has heard me enter. Just in case I assert myself with some noisy feet shuffling, but abstain from an "excuse me." I am a potential customer, not an interruption. For the next three minutes I remain unaddressed while he sighs loudly and opens up the paper tray and side panel in exaggerated world-weariness. Finally, he shuffles over to the desk, unsurprised to see me there.
Even as a customer, courtesy is my first instinct. I bid him hello and ask pleasantly how his day is going. "It'd be better if I could get this copier working." No shit. It turns out their windshield person won't be in until 11 and their internet is down. He tries his computer and phone a couple more times, sighs again, and follows me out to my car to note the damage and take down my VIN. I leave with a vague promise of a future quote.
Next I drive further down the road to another body shop that also does glass. I pull up in front of the open garage door and walk into an empty office. It's dingier than the previous one, though I take some heart from the cheerful handwriting on the "I'm in the garage!" note next to the service bell which I ring. Loud music thrums through the wall as I ring it a second time. I give them two minutes of my time, then split in a foul mood. I half-heartedly look up a couple more garages on my phone, but I've lost my incentive for this errand and have to get back to work.
After lunch I call a shop on Ann Arbor's west side and speak with a friendly, efficient receptionist who offers me a fair quote and a prompt appointment in quick succession. Her easy manner and smiling voice turned me into a customer. It's that easy.
Wednesday, May 29
I've been gifted a small tray of garden starters. Three varieties of tomato, bell peppers, sweet peppers, basil, watermelon, nasturtium, and three sunflower seedlings. I've worked hard all spring beautifying the yard, but keep avoiding the garden. It is this year's Pee-Wee Snakes*.
The raspberry bushes, most of which grow outside the garden fence, have been my only source of anticipation. The low raised bed is almost entirely weeds with a smattering of stunted volunteer carrots from last year. The taller raised bed has been crumbling since I moved here. Last year I just tossed pumpkin seeds into it and let the vines crawl all over the place.
I mow the lawn, listening to Mylo's Destroy Rock & Roll album, then reluctantly set about weeding the garden. The large planters are easy and I make quick work of them, then fashion a squirrel fence out of the remaining chicken wire and stakes I find in the shed. The two raised beds are more difficult, but I hack away, grooving to the vintage U.K. dance beats. Creeping Charlie is everywhere and I remove as much as I can stuff it into lawn bags, its sweet minty aroma cloying in the cool evening air. Cleavers have overtaken the raspberry bushes and I spend about 15 minutes disentangling them from my prized fruit.
Finally, I transfer all the starters into the soil and hope for the best. As I pull the hose away from the driveway wall it springs a leak directly into my face. I settle for the black plastic watering can that makes a mournful bird-like chirp when I tilt it. The low bed that held last year's carrots, zucchini, and radishes is the most annoying and weed-prone section. I just don't feel like tending it this year, so in go the sunflowers, a 4"x6" home for three tiny seedlings. Their tender shoots will likely feed a bird or squirrel (I've at least bunny-proofed the garden), but if they survive, I like the idea of three tall yellow-faced sentries looking back at me in the house.
I stand drinking a beer at the little bar I've attached to the shed, surveying my work, then build a small aesthetic fire in my tiny solo stove and wait for the bats to come out.
* I think of the pet store fire scene from Pee-Wee's Big Adventure every time I am avoiding something I know I'll eventually need to deal with. Pure procrastination. The snakes clearly need to be saved, and I'll do the right thing, but the more appealing animals come out first.
Thursday, May 30
At the auto glass shop, I sit in a plush burgundy leather chair that looks like it belongs in a funeral home. An overstuffed cardboard box of honor snacks occupies much of the coffee table alongside a Costco catalog, a stack of drawing paper and color pencils, and a novel titled Ice Dogs. On a morning talk show a tired looking Gavin Rossdale guts his way through a piano version of Bush's "Glycerine" on some sort of anniversary junket. I put my headphones back on and continue with my Richard Thompson review. An hour later I'm deftly upsold a set of wipers to accompany my new windshield, then sent on my way.
I head across the road to the Saginaw Forest trailhead for a short morning hike. Walking down the hill to the cabin I remember being here last spring filming short loops for my Spotify Canvas videos. I stand for a while on the wooden walkway looking out over Third Sister Lake, absorbing the sun and listening to a red-winged blackbird make his watery call. Moving back into the shade a pair of catbirds quietly precedes me hopping from bush to bush without even a meow. I sink into a weird fantasy and before I know it I've completed the circle and am heading back down through the meadow next to the big megachurch that hosted a drive-through COVID-testing station all through the pandemic. Too many of my memories here involve spitting into a tube, then taking a solitary hike as a small reward.
The evening is spent entirely outside organizing my shed and pricing items for Saturday's yard sale. I start a fire to burn old wood scraps and also because I just want one. I pick up an elm log cut from last year's windfall and as I'm walking over to the firepit begin peeling off all the loose bark. Underneath is a remarkably smooth and attractive log. Clean cut with a nice little knobby branch. I think to myself "damn, this is a handsome log," then set it aside to maybe do something with. Obviously, I wasn't going to sell a log at a yard sale, but this is why I have so much stuff. I can't even part with a piece of firewood.
Friday, May 31
I've taken the day off to finish sorting and pricing my yard sale goods. I sit on my knees at the coffee table listening to Hawaiian music and pricing beloved items, mostly at a dollar. This is an important process for me; I should probably have a sale every year. It might get easier for me to purge my things.
We've got a gig tonight at a funky old bowling alley in Royal Oak. My Ampeg's tubes are on the fritz and I've grabbed the old Fender Super Reverb from a local studio where it's been on loan for years. It's a big heirloom 4x10, heavy as hell, and nearly 60-years-old. It sounds amazing, but it's way too much firepower for this gig. I plug it in and refamiliarize myself its controls. In my little studio I can barely get the volume up to three without blasting myself across the room Marty McFly-style.
After a warm summer drive I pull into the bowling alley and find a 50th birthday party in the lounge where we're supposed to play. I buy two pizza slices, several hours old, out of the warmer behind the shoe rental counter. Not unlike "dentist office," I have an abstract fondness for the aroma of "bowling alley." A mix of floor wax and foot odor in competition with shoe disinfectant, it's clinical, but strangely warming. Back in the lounge I order a beer and chat amiably about Eddie Murphy with the bartender as we watch Trading Places with the sound off. The birthday party starts disassembling in a barrage of laughter, fond farewells, and picture taking. A row of women line up for a photo op in front of my corner seat at the bar and I duck down behind them. They are still at it as my bandmates begin to arrive, one by one.