A View of Home

January winter in Central Florida feels like spring to a Michigander. In fact, some afternoons lean toward summer weather, although temperatures drop to freezing, as well.

After decades in Michigan, any sign of fresh green or unfolding blossoms are a check-off on the springtime list, and from my window here “for lo, the winter is past.”

Cypress trees in the swamp around the corner are putting out fresh needles. Florida violets add tiny purple color to Bahia grass, and Chickasaw plum blossoms are appearing.
The red-shouldered hawks screech as they hunt across my neighborhood, and Woody Woodpecker punches holes in the oaks next door.

Cardinals and blue jays fill the morning with song, and yes, blue jays do more than screech. One summer afternoon in the Heights, I followed a curious bird call from one tree to another until I identified the creaky gate, “Stee-ve did-it” sound with the splash of blue and white from a blue jay.

For years, I dreamed about living in an exotic setting—a beach house in the Caribbean, a cabin in the Smokies, a jungle hut serenaded by monkeys and parrots. I considered my small-town house and neighborhood too common to be admired.

I was wrong.

It’s true that across Florida, you can find spots of tropical splendor, white beaches on two oceans, live oaks with trailing Spanish moss shading abandoned Cracker houses. Cattle egrets travel with the grazing herds, sometimes riding on the backs of their cow.

Sunsets from Pine Island on the Bay rival Lake Michigan’s, offering the crackling rain sound of wind through palm fronds over your head.

But in Michigan I daydreamed near the reflecting pond at Cranbrook Gardens while pretending I lived in the manor house. Inhaled the indescribable perfume of lilacs, or apples being crushed into cider as the mill water wheel squeaked.

Savored the sight of orange flares in the dark on Halloween, and shiny smelt wiggling in a net under the Blue Water Bridge. The blaze of autumn sugar maple woods.

White pine needles waving in the breeze. Cinnamon ferns in a white birch forest. Willows along the Detroit River in Belle Isle. Lawns bright with dandelions.

Apple and cherry orchards in bloom, with pies later in the summer from backyard trees.

Queen Anne’s lace and chicory in an August field. Morning sunlight through a tent door with the sound of waves lapping on the lakeshore. The perfume of freshly-cut Kentucky bluegrass-perennial ryegrass lawns.

Woodward Avenue on a busy Saturday. The splash of Bear Fountain at the zoo. Lighthouses along the Great Lakes. Shade across the street on Caroline from the tall maple over the front porch of a delectable frame house. A drive down old Adams Road near Meadowbrook, now real only in our memories. Hay rides in Romeo.

Icicles hanging from roofs long and thick enough to be weapons.

My husband Dave recognized a muscle car engine by sound streets away. I could identify most of the Michigan songbirds, and when robins filled the afternoon with their unique songs, you knew summer had arrived.

Ravens, since there are no ravens in Florida. Crows, yes, but none of my neighbors could imagine how large a raven is, or our fox squirrels, when compared to the spindly-tale gray species scampering up and down live oaks here.

We can visit Cranbrook, England in Bloomfield Hills, the Netherlands in Holland for a tulip festival, Germany’s Christmas in Frankenmuth, or Greece with an order of souvlaki in Greektown.

All in Michigan.

True, there are no palm trees, magnolia flowers as long as a ruler, or white ibises scurrying across the lawns of my street, but I was wrong to think that alluring, enviable settings exist only in distant locations.

Karen Blixen wrote her immortal Out of Africa from her home in Denmark, looking back on her coffee farm life. I share Michigan memories from my Florida house, visions of snowdrifts and dandelions from a sub-tropical setting.

Every home has its glamour, even when we see it every day.

I’ll trade you a sprig of orange blossoms for a vase of lilacs.

And still listen for the robin’s song to announce springtime.