Month: March 2018

As the World Turns

The most memorable part of the migration was the movement of crane flocks in the sky. Maybe gliding on the wind, I saw several flocks in a slow swirl, like a pot of soup being stirred. When I close my eyes, I see cranes like an afterimage of the sun, each a tiny white V or T, slowly circling in a peaceful cosmos.

Photo: cranes near Kearney & Gibbon, NE

Ribbons of Birds

The cranes aren’t alone during their migration. Other birds also inhabit the area in great flocks. Many of these birds fly in intricate patterns like fishnets, lace, or elaborately strung pearl necklaces. At times, layers of birds fly past, each flock on its own plane, crossing over each other in a complex design.

Photo: Kearney, NE

Migration

My first destination was Nebraska, to see the crane migration. Flyers and guides listed parks and bird sanctuaries to visit, but the best views I found were by pulling over on the side of the road near farm fields or water. Near sunrise and sunset, waves of flocks would fly over. One black cloud after another levitated, then swooshed past in the formation of a stroke of paint from an enormous paintbrush.

Sometimes, all at once, birds flew in front of me, on each side, above me, and behind me. The area echoed with the chatter of sandhills- even when I couldn’t see them, I could hear them.

Photo: cranes at the Platte River, near Kearney and Gibbon, NE

Speaking in Tongues

My dad has this supersonic connection to sandhill cranes. It started a few years ago, when he didn’t even remember their name. “What are they called again? The storks” he’d ask me.

He’ll be in his kitchen or living room in March or November when all the windows are closed and the storm windows are down, in the middle of a story, and suddenly he’ll stop and say, “The cranes are out.” Everybody gets quiet, listening. “I don’t hear anything,” I’ll say. He opens the front door, and as we walk out, he points to a tiny cluster of spots in the sky, and I hear the cranes’ distinctive, ricketing call.

He can also imitate their trill really well, which is kind of a bizarre sound for a person to make. It’s like he understands them and can innately speak their language.  

Sometimes, morbidly, I think I already know what I’ll remember about people after they die. I know I will think of him every time I hear a sandhill. I already do.  

Photo: cranes near Kearney & Gibbon, NE

Preservation Hall

If you’ve never been to Preservation Hall in New Orleans, you should go. The venue is about the size of two living rooms. Half of it holds the band and seating, which consists of cushions on the floor plus a few benches. [I was lucky enough to get a seat on a bench when I visited.] The other half is standing room only, with people crowded in like sardines. There are no microphones, no amps, no speakers. The time I went, before the band started playing, the employee who had taken our entrance fee came in to announce, “Everybody, turn off your phones. Put your phones away. Put your cameras away. For the next hour, it’s going to be a roomful of people enjoying great music.” The music is so close and immediate. Nowadays, it’s a rare experience.

A Tiny Red Wagon Story

When I was a kid, Rachel lived in the house behind ours. One summer, her mom planted too many zucchinis, the classic garden story. By late summer, the zucchinis had grown massive from staying on the vine so long. Her mom picked the fruits and loaded them into Rachel’s red wagon, then sent us out, carting the wagon from door to door, trying to give the zucchinis away. Most people had the same problem we did and had no use for another zucchini. Some neighbors, trying to be nice and make conversation, asked if we were sisters. We lied and said yes. One old man seemed delighted to hear that we were giving away free zucchinis and took about four gigantic ones. I remember thinking, there is no way he is gonna use all those. But what do I know? Maybe he baked seventy-five loaves of zucchini bread and lived off of them all winter.