Set up day for “Thunder in the Streets” is lazy,
sun-drenched and the venue is on the same harbor park I frequented
thirty years ago as an embryonic sign painter. As I scan the glass
smooth water on this sunny morning, I recall spending many
afternoons, after my work was done, out on that lake in someone’s
boat.
I apprenticed the sign
painting trade near here, at a shop in nearby Longwood, at that
time filled with journeymen brush lettering men. I adopted
the habit of being at this marina on Lake Monroe every Sunday,
lettering boats for some extra income. I always had one, two and
sometimes three boats to letter every time I came. As I learned
the trade and my weekend receipts began to match my paycheck, the
time to launch my freelance career had arrived.
As I sit with the
pinstriping booth partially set up and admire my surroundings, I
notice an abundance of dragonflies as they patrol in a systematic
pattern, much like search and rescue surveillance planes looking
for someone adrift on the ocean. Black birds on a migratory path
disregard the egrets and ducks that sleep in the shade of palm
trees around the city park pond on this still, hot morning. Unseen
song birds in distant places seem to be enjoying communicating
with each other and the occasional distant plane rumbles slowly
off into silence.
As I sat meditating, a
flock of a hundred white birds that had been napping in the grass
by the pond, all took a notion to take off in flight at the same
time. A great cloud of flapping wings rose and like a loosely
organized aviation formation, they banked, rolled and ascended
together, seemingly to pursue a mission of some sort and as I
craned my neck to watch them, they changed direction in unison and
soared directly overhead. What a thrill. I watched with wonder as
the gaggle then flew out over Lake Monroe, still in an organized,
yet amorphous arrangement and banked into yet another direction
that brought them eventually back to where that had taken off
from, with a few individuals landing in the treetops and the bulk
of them landing back on the grass. As quickly as it began,
the instantaneously motivated and now satisfied flock was restored
to peace.
The sensation was
reminiscent of when I was a child in the Midwest, riding in a
fifties tomato soup colored Pontiac with my dad, looking through
the side window as we drove across the fertile farmland that
stretched for miles. Great clouds of flying black birds morphed
into immense hypnotic shapes as thousands flew in a unison that
changed direction, dove, turned and rose to eventually select a
spot to land, eat, rest, chatter and then take off again. As I
look back in time, it is with wonder that I relate to the tales
from centuries ago of great flocks of birds that darkened the sky
because they were so numerous.
Mankind has certainly
taken a toll on our bird and other of nature’s populations.
Today’s flocks still have the same instinctual pattern of
behavior yet the numbers are much smaller. I can’t do much about
the world wide population of birds but I can make sure to keep my
bird feeder full and plant a few trees for them in the yard at
home.
Torrential rain has
plagued this quaint old town. The tropical storm from last month
brought with it five days in a row of heavy precipitation. As I
walk the brick paved streets past majestic hundred year old
buildings, evidence in the form of sandbags protecting the
perimeter of some of the store fronts still remain. The locals
comment about the water level of Lake Monroe being “up to the
seawall” and admit that they are tired of the rain.
