Some roads are scenic. Some are direct. In 1959, the city of Ann Arbor planned Huron Parkway to be both. The boulevard links north to south on the city’s east side, traversing the Huron River and one of the city’s golf courses and passing various parks and nature areas. For much of its length, the median is full of wildflowers and wild animals. You never really know what you’ll see along the parkway.
Recently, for instance, a Canada goose was walking across the street at the corner by the high school. It crossed in the pedestrian crosswalk and with the light. With education, so much is possible. Down the street half a block, however, another goose was preparing to step off the curb in the uneducated but time-honored goose tradition of anywhere I want to, any time I feel like it. That goose must not have graduated yet.
On the way to French class today, I saw a mama woodchuck and her four babies browsing along the sidewalk. Woodchucks have never struck me as cute before, with the possible exception of when they sit on their hind legs beside a road, watching the world go by. Baby woodchucks, it turns out, are cute. They’re miniature marmots with amazingly shiny fur, mimicking their mama.
On the way home from class, at the same corner, a male turkey stood in the median, displaying. He puffed up his chest and pointed his wings down and fanned out his tail feathers. He was a veritable body builder among turkeys, showing his tomliness to best advantage. Across the street from him was a female turkey. She had her head down, feeding, and seemed to be paying him no attention at all. He remained hopeful, and held his position.
Driving the parkway at dusk or later can be unnerving. Deer, unseen in the median or in the greenery on either side of the road, can and do leap into the road. As a driver, you just hope your headlights reflect in the deer’s eyes, so you can stop in time. My preferred way to drive on Huron Parkway at night is not too far behind another car. That car’s headlights can check for deer, and our car can slip through the space before another deer has time to leap out.
This week is Ann Arbor’s Japan Week, which includes several special events at the library. I went to one on Wednesday that was a demonstration of the Japanese art of kintsugi. Kintsugi, or golden joinery, is a traditional art form that mends broken ceramics. The joins between the broken pieces are, near the end of the process, dusted with powdered gold or silver or platinum. Kintsugi places value on flaws and fragility. An object repaired using this method may become more beautiful than it was before it broke.
The goal of kintsugi isn’t seamless repair. Kintsugi puts what is broken back together in such a way that the breaks and repairs become part of the object’s story, its character. Aki Motoyama, a Japanese-American artist who lives in Tokyo, was our demonstrator. She used specialized materials and specialized tools in her presentation. Urushi, the sap of a lacquer tree, figures prominently in the process.
My favorite part of the demonstration was the quiet, contemplative part. Motoyama used an exceedingly narrow, long-bristled paintbrush to trace the joins of the wares she was restoring. It was slow, painstaking work, during which no one spoke. Through excellent preparation and organization, Motoyama was able to demonstrate the entire kintsugi process in the allotted hour. It was a privilege to attend.
In my French class, one person in particular tells great stories, some of which arise just off the cuff. Kathy mentioned this morning that, after a hot Fourth-of-July parade, she and other kids had headed for a dip in Lake Huron. Wasn’t that cold, our teacher asked. Not a problem, Kathy said. Her mom had a way of keeping track of kid temperatures.
She’d call the kids over to her on the beach, ask her son to turn around. Then she’d point out the prominent scar they all knew Bob had on his back. She’d go through this process—Bob was fine with this—every time the kids swam there. The Great Lakes are cold, even on the Fourth of July. And she’d say, “See how his scar is pink now?” The kids all murmured assent.
“Well, when it turns blue, that means you’re all cold and it’s time to come out.” Bob felt important, and the kids had a time limit that didn’t seem arbitrary. There’s no arguing with a human thermometer.
20 June 2025
The local goose collective is multi-generational now and has gotten quite good at crossing the road between their favored pond and the Rouge River and a house with a wild area of land that attracts much wildlife.