Microblog

Walked under the 10th Avenue Bridge, currently undergoing major rehabilitation. It’s next to the Interstate 35W Bridge that replaces a bridge that collapsed, without warning, during rush hour in August 2007.

Cycled down to Lake Street where we joined many hundreds of people with brooms and dustpans to do cleanup.

It’s a day for quiet reflection, a day to say nothing that could fan the flames.

As anger spills over in Minneapolis, I’m focusing on my small contribution for a better future. A GED (high school equivalency diploma) text, the size of a phone book, arrived in the mail. I’ll tutor an adult non-native speaker online.

Locked up our bikes, sipped cappuccinos, looked out at Lake Harriet framed by the back wall of the bandshell stage.

Water spilled down a glass wall across a silent Minneapolis street. I’d failed to notice this in normal times; now I hear it each time I cycle by.

Returned parts from recent projects to assigned plastic shoeboxes or to a Habitat donation bag. Shoeboxes are the right size to group parts: bigger boxes hide clutter. Two of the brown crates hold parts for current projects. The process never ends: some shelves need work now,

Took a photo of our lunch to send to a former colleague of Dwight who had given him the bowls and hashi rests as a retirement gift.

Our morning stroll became an eight-miler where we saw beauty and transience.

St. John Baptist de La Salle stood lookout while we set up suitably spaced lawn chairs and chatted with friends on the grounds of a high school.

Spotted on our walk: a mouse door.

Posted Our Country Club.

A run became a walk; blue poles projected calm.

Cycled under glorious tree blossoms, stayed in the moment, didn’t take a photo. Instead, here’s my latest science project: logging the weight of a tray of microgreens. A load cell is connected to the cloud, an app graphs results, logging the weight of a tray.

Installed our battered old Thule.

It was a day to stay home and watch YouTube videos to improve my soldering, and other such skills. Occasionally I looked out at the constant rain and the scrolling message on the Guthrie’s marquee: “Promise this world your love” from a poem, “Pandemic.”