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.