When swallows leave…

...can fall be far behind?

I’m a relentless optimist, but there is always a moment in the middle of summer when I realize that soon it will be over. It doesn’t matter how oppressive the weather, (and it is plenty hot this week, with temperatures in the 90s Fahrenheit/30s Celsius). Despite the heat, I can almost smell the snow to come.

For me, the feeling of time slipping away comes from three things: The slant of light, the stars, and the birds.

I had an author event at Buffalo, N.Y.’s West Side Rowing Club in mid-June. Two generations of my family belonged to the club and rowed, including my sister Ellen. Her desire to row despite barriers years ago that kept women from membership formed a subplot of my book, “Saving Ellen: A Memoir of Hope and Recovery.”

I knew the club’s Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fontana Boathouse, built to the specifications of century-old blueprints from the famous architect himself, would be a beautiful setting for an author talk. Knowing that the sun wouldn’t set in the city’s northern latitudes until 9 p.m. or later, I scheduled the event at 8 in the evening to avoid getting in the way of the club’s other activities. The evening was perfect, with light skies, a beautiful sunset, with friends, coaches and cousins all kind enough to show up.

View toward the Peace Bridge, spanning the Niagara River from Buffalo to Canada, the evening of the event

Alas, now the light is quickly fading. Last night, when I took the dogs out at 9 p.m., it was dark and I needed a flashlight to walk in the fields.

In the darkness, I looked up. The Big Dipper, the constellation that rose in the east when the first flowers bloomed this year, is now swinging to the northwest.

At least the constellation Orion isn’t visible yet. Then I will really know the party is over.

But the birds truly help me mark the passage of time.

Barn swallows seem to think the barn we built on our property 13 years ago is a bird hotel, constructed especially for them. I wish I could put up a “No Vacancy” sign that they would heed, but alas, it would be a waste of time. The word is out. From just one mud-and-grass nest a few years ago, now two to three couples arrive and built several. I used to try to keep the barn doors shut, but they always find a way to squeeze in through the gaps.

They arrive early, in April from Central and South America, unpack their bags, and quickly begin swooping in and out of the barn, with their chittering call, gathering all the grass and damp earth they can find. Then they get to work.

And much as I appreciate their appetite for mosquitos and other insects, frankly, they make a god-awful mess. I leave old coverings draped in the barn where I don’t appreciate daily droppings.

Fledglings generally appear by the middle of June, with their distinctive white chests that will become tawny as they age. From the main nest in our barn, this year’s crop of four young’uns proved to be particularly amusing. I couldn’t resist photographing their adolescence as they gazed down at me and the waiting world, trying to work up the nerve to fly

.

For several days they huddled together anxiously in the nest, looking like fat toes with eyes and beaks, as if to say, “You try it. No, you,” to one another. Their parents kept a wide berth. This was not their bridge to cross. The young ones had to start their personal journey alone.

Finally, one little guy flew off and circled the nest, encouraging his brothers and sisters.

Then another took the plunge.

It took another full day, but finally, a third jumped off the mud ledge and joined the other two.

The three swooped in and out of the barn, while the remaining fledgling stared at them helplessly from its perch atop a junction box for electrical wiring.

The siblings all chirped encouragement flying in and out, over and over. Night fell and the little bird still huddled in the now-empty nest.

The next morning, I arrived at my usual early hour and immediately searched the ceiling for the remaining feathered family member.

The nest was empty. Instinct, and maybe encouragement of others, had conquered avian fear. For a few days all the fledgelings partied together, swirling around the yard, honing their techniques for mid-air bug-snatching, working on soaring take offs and soft landings. “Look Ma! See what I can do!” They seemed to chirp.

Then, one day last week they all left, en masse, heading south for the Americas. They packed light, leaving their nests behind. Finally, I can shake out the old sheets and sweep up the mess they left.

We have the barn back to ourselves, but it seems a little lonely. And now I know, with the swallows’ departure, that summer days are waning too.

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With the coming advent of fall, I know the Okoboji Writers and Songwriters Retreat in late September can’t be far behind! This is a fabulous learning and networking experience on the shores of beautiful Lake Okoboji in Iowa. I’ll be teaching opinion and memoir writing there, but it offers dozens of workshops for writers of any level and it is far less expensive than similar writer’s retreats. Come join us!

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Connecticut peeps, I’ll be giving author talks and mini-workshops on writing in a variety of venues starting tomorrow, when I will be at my town of Franklin’s Janet Carlson Calvert Library at 6 pm talking about writing. I’ll be appearing weekly in a neighborhood near you until mid-November. Check out my website for more dates - I’d love to see you.