The sweetness of a wood thrush's song

I’m listening for that wood thrush to fly in. He’s a songster — trilling woodland romance, especially in the evening. Years ago I heard him at Priest Lake. Followed the notes and spied him in a tree — enough to identify him in my bird book.

The same guy hangs out in Alaska’s summertime, I discovered after moving there. How the forest fills with song from the end of May to mid-July. Eerily quiet when the mating season ends and the lovely trill is still. Till next year.

Like so many things in nature — in life — there’s that window. It’s open for a time to appreciate and enjoy. It might be the people in our lives. Or an activity we pursue.

In our early married years Terry was into building and flying radio control glider planes. Not as easy as it looks. He managed to hit the only obstacle — the backstop — in a school field where he was practicing. Another time he got his plane stuck in a thick stand of trees on private property. Had to go home for his rifle and shoot the branch to get it to fall out.

The years passed and he didn’t fly anymore — though he could have. When he had back surgery in retirement — with a long indoor winter recovery — he special ordered that same model plane and built the kit. He held the hope of getting into flying again. But he didn’t heal like he thought he would. He needed a crutch for balance.

A year later he talked of giving the plane to his brother-in-law to fly. I tried to dissuade him. I wanted to see him out there enjoying a hobby he liked. Instead I got harsh words thrown at me, “I’m a cripple, Carol!” A splash of cold reality in the face. He didn’t figure he could even stand steady enough to work the radio.

So…the season seemed over. He loaned the plane — because I thought someday one of our grandsons might like something he built — to the brother-in-law who promptly joined a Spokane radio control flying club.

He invited Terry to a meeting one night when we happened to be staying in town. And there Terry learned of disabled people who fly. Some in wheelchairs. Others who sit in a swivel chair they can turn to follow the path of their plane. He’s beginning to think flying again just may be possible.

Some seasons when they are gone are gone. All the more crucial to notice and savor. Others — like the wood thrush song — return another day. And the joy is all the sweeter.