I’ve had enough of ’em. I tried to be kind. After all, they’re harmless creatures… those little cicadas who only come out of the ground once every 17 years.
The first time I experienced the run of these buggers, I was 9 years old. It took me nearly one week before I found the courage to pick up one of their emptied shells. It was interesting in that it was sheer and brittle; I could easily crush the shell between my two fingers. Instead, I held it and marveled how it showed the exact shape of the insect that broke out of its cover and now took over our neighborhood.
Kids taunted and chase one another with the cicadas, daring to leave one on your shoulder or – worse – jab it in your face. I shuddered each time I went outside to ride my bike, hoping no one sensed my fear of the creatures.
Finally, I took it upon myself to pick up a dead cicada. Hmm… not too bad. At least it wasn’t moving around and twitching its wings. I made myself hold the little guy in order to overcome my fear.
My mom insisted that I get over my fears. “You need to get in touch with Nature,” she advised. “Anyhow, I promise that they wouldn’t return for another 17 years.” Doing the math in my head, I hoped that by the time I was 26 years old, my anxiety would diminish. My maturity would surpass my childish jitters and I’d be just fine.
I’m not sure if my strategy worked, or that enough time had passed and they went back underground. Either way, I had survived the summer of 1973 cicada infestation.
I went back to riding my bike, nurturing a broken arm (that’s another story), while singing along to Tony Orlando and Dawn’s “Tie a Yellow Ribbon ‘Round the Ole Oak Tree.” Yes, things were going to be just fine for the next [nearly] two decades.
1990 Came and Went
The cicadas returned in 1990, but for some reason they were not lodged underneath the mature trees in my Ravenswood neighborhood. It seems the periodical pests don’t travel much — instead, they stay where they’re “planted.”
The Summer of 2007 came along. I lucked out again, since the oldest trees in our neighborhood were several blocks over. Those streets were crowded with cicadas and – later – seagulls as they arrived to help themselves to a smorgasbord of protein-based bugs.
It’s Now 2024
Here we find ourselves again – another summer with cicadas. At this age (you do the math), my uptight attitude is gone. I have bigger issues that keep me up at night.
These cicadas, though. They’re LOUD. They are not adroit flyers. And they’ve set up camp in our neighborhood.
The other day as I worked at home, windows were wide open due to the lovely 73 degree temperatures. No humidity. Plenty of sunshine and the trees swayed from a gentle wind.
Except those darn insects let out such a shrill buzz that my ears were ringing. The fracas reminded me of watching an old movie where an ambulance buzzed by to bring wounded soldiers to a field hospital during WWII. Their blaring song that day (heck, the past three weeks!) was anything but soothing.
The continuous bedlam was enough to make me shut the windows and turn on the A/C — the last thing I wanted to do on such a beautiful spring day.
Even with all the windows in the house, I could still hear a strong blare of bugs. Was there a window I missed perhaps? Walking round the house, I saw that everything was secure. Yet the commotion was still there. Were those cicadas that boisterous that it sounded as they they were inside our dwelling?
This went on all afternoon until I finally had to take another look. And there he was… one poor little fella stuck between the inside screen and the outside window. His chirp was emphatic as he must have felt trapped (he was!) and anxious to return to his friends.
I cranked open the window and tapped the screen to loosen his grip. “Go, go now and get along!” I spurred him. It took a few times before he seemed to understand and took it upon himself to fly away.
I shut the window and relished the silence in the house. Ahh, Nature can be wonderful, right? As long as it stays outside where it belongs.
Week 3
Week 3 was upon us. As my spouse and I drove into the city to attend the Old Town Art Fair, I kept hearing a grating screech in our vehicle. A wail. A yelp for help, if you will.
I thought I was only imaging things, until we were in River North and the little bugger suddenly appeared. There he was, squashed between my seat belt and my belly. Each time I moved, he squirmed and screamed. Poor little fella.
“Leave him be; he’s cute,” my husbanded pleaded.
“Yeah, well not cute enough,” I commented once the cicada got loose and started flying around my feet. I scooped him up, rolled down the window and encouraged him to fly away. It took a few “encouragements” before he complied and flew off. Landing somewhere in Clark Street, among the taxis, pizza joints and tourist. Hopefully, he’d find a small tree and latch on. At this point, I felt he was on his own. I could no longer worry about one cicada.
Tuesday Morning Came About
Things seemed quieter this morning as we commuters waited for our morning train into the city. For nearly a month, we had stood at the train platform, swatting at flying cicadas as they landed on our shoulders. Our tote bags. Our hair. And SMACK! – right into our faces.
Today was an improvement. There were quite a few dead ones on the ground. Do they die I their own? I wondered. Or were they explicitly stomped to death from frustrated commuters? We may never know. Yet somehow it was a bit sad to see the dead creatures. Overall, they’re harmless. Yes, they can be loud and annoying. But really, they’re simple insects who are just doing their “thing.”
I arrived to work just before 9:00, setting down my heavy backpack and the ice-cold coffee I had picked up in our break room. I was ready for another innocuous day at work.
Until I felt a squirm. And something that seemed a bit crunchy. And a bit icky and off-putting.
Could it be? And, yes, I could sense it. It was. A cicada. Hitching a ride inside my blouse. Right alongside my bosom. Ahhhhhh!!!!!!!! I let out a scream.
I swatted that cicada with my left arm and it landed on the carpet beneath my desk. I wasn’t going to take time to search for a magazine or newspaper to swat it. Nope, this time I used my sandal. And I gave it a good STOMP to let it know how I feel.
The dead bug is in my trash can now. It’s the first one I’ve ever killed. With great relief, I can return to my computer and start my day in an environment devoid of any creepy creatures crawling inside my clothing.
Except now I’m left wondering what Mother Nature thinks of me.
Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST.
PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST 