When I first wrote this blog, I had hope. It would only last for a month and then not come back for 17 years. Sigh.
Unfortunately, starting next month, it’ll become something of a tradition—every day I will go into the garden and check for cicadas. At first, I’ll only see a couple. Then the trees will be covered in a significant number of empty shells and I’ll be able to glimpse the occasional red-eyed bug crawling around. Shudder. Last time one of my granddaughters enjoyed having them crawl on her hands and another caught one and put it in a jar. Will they feel the same this time?
But, as the song title says, “We’ve only just begun.” Soon, the air, our clothing, and our hair will be full of flying insects that seem to be encumbered with an unfortunate inability to navigate accurately. Personally, I will be wearing tight clothes and a hat. Our ears will be assaulted with the song of trillions of hopeful bridegrooms looking for their brides (or so I tell my grandchildren). And then, having celebrated their love and laid their eggs, the happy couples will die—and at the base of every tree the helpless observer will see and smell piles of stinking cicada corpses. Their offspring, having sucked their host trees dry, will burrow back into the earth to enjoy root sap.
Of course, one can look on the bright side. This year there will be neither a need to aerate the lawn nor to pay for fertilizer. And this is a rare opportunity to experience a wonder of nature where the maximum sustainable number of insects emerge all in the space of six weeks. But, I’m not all that excited about the event. It’s not that cicadas are dangerous—it’s just that having one up my shirt or in my hair is a profoundly unattractive prospect.
Is there a point to this blog post? Do I have some words of wisdom? Not really. Just letting you all know that, if you want to see me during May and into June, I’ll be at my desk writing. Where it’s safe.