Nature’s Symphony: Reflections from Crooked Lake

Last weekend, I woke before dawn. Mothers have this uncanny ability to sleep yet remain alert for night sounds. When my children were small, I listened for their coughs or cries, hoping that night would give them rest rather than discomfort. As they grew to teens and young adults, I would listen for the turn of the key signaling that they were home safe and sound. Only then, would I hear the rhythm of my heart welcoming a peaceful sleep.

Recently, my dad took a tumble and we have been helping him heal at his home on Crooked Lake. I find myself listening for his slippered shuffle in the mid of night or the sounds of his cries when his dreams turn unquiet. I lay in bed thinking of his loneliness after the death of my mother. I lay thinking of what it would feel like to be living your ninety-second year on this earth. I lay there listening to the steady sound of the bullfrog who lives among the pondweed and lily pads.

For as long as I can remember, I have sought comfort in the sounds of nature. When the true July heat of summer descends, I anticipate the chorus of katydids and crickets at twilight, the mourning of the dove at dawn. My father’s cousin-in-law, Pam, lived on Lac du Flambeau in the North Woods of Wisconsin. Birch and pine forests lined the remote waters. Each morning, Pam swam the short length of the lake, toweling off her wet hair at the end of her swim, smiling at the gift of life. I always admired Pam’s connection to the earth. She was a child of nature; a lake creature breaking through subtle waves with long, smooth strokes, blending seamlessly with the chill of green waters.

One afternoon, the threat of a summer rainstorm lifted the boughs of the pine trees and set the birch leaves fluttering. Pam explained how different the wind sounds when it blows through a pine and birch forest.

The wind whistles rather than howls as it tends to do when blowing through a wood of maple and oak. I can still remember laying in the dark of the first-floor bedroom, covered with a musty camp blanket, trying to discern the melody of the wind. Strangely, all I could hear was the cry of a loon.

Recently, I chaperoned a fourth-grade class at a day camp in Pennsylvania on the eastern shores of Lake Erie. Half of the class sprinted like young jackrabbits, while the others were as slow as Galapagos tortoises. To keep everyone safe, I found myself dashing back and forth on the trails with a litheness I never knew I possessed. The wooded trail ended at a country road. I ran ahead of my jackrabbits and waited for the rest of the group. We looked left and right. The road seemed clear, but then I heard a distant sound around the bend. The children thought it the sound of spring wind blowing through the trees. I told them a car was coming and that we needed to wait. Sure enough, a car approached within minutes. When we were finally back on the wooded course, I explained to the children the importance of stillness, the importance of listening. I told them about the winds that blow amongst high-hedged country lanes in Ireland. When walking along the narrow roads, the careful walker learns to distinguish the sound of meadow breeze from the hum of a fast-moving car. Muffled by the towering brambles and thick foliage, car engines appear to mimic the wind. After listening to my advice steeped in the traditional childhood cautionary tale, the children nodded with brief understanding and then took off with heedless excitement.

One ear attuned to nature and one bent toward practicality, I live for spontaneous songs that beckon the past and herald future promise. Recently, my Missouri cousin and I sat on our covered porch at Crooked Lake talking breathlessly about life. We laughed about distant memories and cried over lost dreams. Our voices rose above the din of steady rainfall. When we finally paused to take a breath, the rain seemed to lessen. Sunset broke through the grey of storm clouds. Birds of every shape and color began their evening symphony. I tried to categorize the chirps and shrieks, the whistles and hoots, but the birdsong blended into one cacophonous ode to joy. In perfect time, the bullfrog croaked a resounding bellow; a loud strike of the timpani drum punctuating the frenzied chorus of birds.

Alone in our thoughts, each holding onto our own set of worries, our own stash of hope, my cousin and I looked at one another, smiling at the memory of her daddy’s farm and the July serenade of Ozark bullfrogs in moonlit ponds. We looked out onto the darkening lake and listened for the shuffle of my father’s slippered feet.