Singing in the Shop


The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last forever.

— E.B. White, Charlotte’s Web


I know nothing about crickets, other than there is one hanging out in my workshop and I like the way he sings.  I find his song soothing and the perfect carving accompaniment.

He’s been here the past few evenings.  On the second night, I spotted him on a board leaning against the wall — along with what I’ll assume was his intended audience.  I haven’t seen her since, and to be honest, I am assuming it was a her.  The night after that he sang again, using my pack as a stage.  He didn’t seem to mind me looking closely.  And as I write this, he is perched on a shelf full of odd chunks of wood, chirping away.  He’s helping me finish a bowl from a large maple crook, and I should be able to share the results soon.  I keep the door open, so he must want to see the project through to the end.

So, cheers to crickets.


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