"You know it’s spring when the sandhill cranes come back!"
A couple of years ago, when we first toured this house with a realtor, I was reading the spec sheet to learn the details of the property. In a section describing the wetlands beyond the hayfield, the owner had written the sentence above.
It seemed like an unusual thing to include in a real estate description, and at the time I paid little attention to it. I was infinitely more interested in details like square footage and whether the tanks in the drain field were working properly.
The first summer we moved in, though, I really enjoyed having those cranes around. They had a very distinctive call and were quite beautiful in flight. There were always three of them, never just one or two. One was noticeably smaller than the others, so we surmised that this must be a family, sharing a nest together in our wetlands.
They stayed through the fall but were gone when the cold weather came. It was a particularly harsh winter in Michigan, that first year. It seemed to snow nearly every day, and our power got knocked out twice by high winds (no generator yet—it’s still on our wish list). Then just when it seemed as if winter would never end, and the world outside my window would stay frozen forever, the cranes came back.
And that was it—the last of the cold weather. The air began to smell musty, like dirt and rain and roots. Tiny shoots started poking out of the ground. The frozen wetlands grew mushy again. We hung up our winter coats and hats and gloves. It was spring.
Last year, only two of the cranes came back. Jim and I told ourselves that the third one had finally grown up and left home, and the remaining two were now empty nesters, like us. We hoped that’s what happened, anyway. We like to think that Crane, Jr. is out there somewhere, with a family of his own.
A few days ago, Jim was out in the backyard with the dog when he suddenly came and knocked on the kitchen window. “Can you see them?” he asked, pointing through the trees. “Right the
re.” At first I couldn’t see anything,
It seemed like an unusual thing to include in a real estate description, and at the time I paid little attention to it. I was infinitely more interested in details like square footage and whether the tanks in the drain field were working properly.
The first summer we moved in, though, I really enjoyed having those cranes around. They had a very distinctive call and were quite beautiful in flight. There were always three of them, never just one or two. One was noticeably smaller than the others, so we surmised that this must be a family, sharing a nest together in our wetlands.
They stayed through the fall but were gone when the cold weather came. It was a particularly harsh winter in Michigan, that first year. It seemed to snow nearly every day, and our power got knocked out twice by high winds (no generator yet—it’s still on our wish list). Then just when it seemed as if winter would never end, and the world outside my window would stay frozen forever, the cranes came back.And that was it—the last of the cold weather. The air began to smell musty, like dirt and rain and roots. Tiny shoots started poking out of the ground. The frozen wetlands grew mushy again. We hung up our winter coats and hats and gloves. It was spring.
Last year, only two of the cranes came back. Jim and I told ourselves that the third one had finally grown up and left home, and the remaining two were now empty nesters, like us. We hoped that’s what happened, anyway. We like to think that Crane, Jr. is out there somewhere, with a family of his own.
A few days ago, Jim was out in the backyard with the dog when he suddenly came and knocked on the kitchen window. “Can you see them?” he asked, pointing through the trees. “Right the
re.” At first I couldn’t see anything, but then one of them moved. And then the other. Then they both took off over the house, long necks and graceful wings outstretched. Jim and I smiled at each other, because we’re believers now.
No matter what the calendar or the weatherman or the Farmer’s Almanac might say, we know the true harbinger of spring: it’s when the sandhill cranes come back.
Manuscript Update
One of the consequences to letting people know about a work in progress is that they tend to ask things like, “So, how’s the book coming along?” On different days I have different answers—the process of creating something from nothing has been both exhilarating and exhausting.
No matter what the calendar or the weatherman or the Farmer’s Almanac might say, we know the true harbinger of spring: it’s when the sandhill cranes come back.
Manuscript Update
One of the consequences to letting people know about a work in progress is that they tend to ask things like, “So, how’s the book coming along?” On different days I have different answers—the process of creating something from nothing has been both exhilarating and exhausting.
To give you some idea of what it's like, I’ll close with a couple of quotes (I know, I just can’t help myself!). The first is an often-told story about James Joyce. When asked by a friend about his manuscript in progress, he said with some exasperation, “I’ve written seven words today.” The friend replied, “Well, James, for you, actually, that’s not bad.” Joyce considered this, then said, “I suppose that’s true, but now I’ve got to figure out what order to put them in.”
And finally, here is Oscar Wilde on the subject of the writing process: “I was working on the proof of one of my poems all the morning, and took out a comma. In the afternoon I put it back again."
