Thursdays are tough. By this day, my sleep time fluctuates and my do nothing time is near zero levels. It’s the last of the days where I lecture all morning and I’m near spent. I see my days as a string of circles, like bike chains that occasionally jump from one setting to another, but basically remain suspended around the same orbit.
I get up early, work until the last possible minute and, for the third day now, find my phone ringing just before I leave. It’s Amos, today telling us that unfortunately, for one reason or another, the roof has been cut too short.
I pass this problem on to Ed and pedal off to class. So what. Too short? There surely is a solution. My ideas on this are irrelevant. I know nothing about extending roofs or overhangs.
Past Lake Mendota I spin. By the time I see the boats on the very still waters, I am in a steady rhythm of pedal work and I concentrate on the class before me.
Purchase photo 1926
And now I am at the Union. One last look at the waters, a pause to admire the kayak lesson, and I turn inland, toward my own classroom.
Purchase photo 1925
It’s the end of the month. A mixed up month of warm air, happy reunions, camping misconceptions and artistic snafus. A month of mosquitoes and markets. Of adjustments. Including to the roof of the writer’s shed.