When we were kids, there was one music store in town. Mr. Hagedorn’s shop was right on Main Street, in one of those little, dark and crowded spaces that felt welcoming and homey, like going into someone’s living room. And Mr. Hagedorn was always there, tinkering with something and ready to sell me the clarinet reeds I needed on a fairly regular basis.
Sometimes, way before the weekend comes, I know what I want to write about. I plan it out—sometimes to match up with specific holidays and other times to avoid doing anything offensive on those days. (April Fool’s and Easter was a tough one this year, since it fell on the same day.)
Other times things just happen.