Flashback: I took a cross-country trip when I was 15. We stopped to make sandwiches at a park in Amarillo, Texas. I remember two things about that park: First, it was where I met my lifelong pen pal Judy. Second, there was an incredibly loud buzz in the air, which I assumed was some kind of power-line issue. “Dang,” I thought, “ee-lectricity shore is loud in Texas!” (In honor of my surroundings, I thought in a stereotype Texas accent.)
Back to the future. I now live in Cincinnati, Ohio. Two things: First, Judy is still my pen pal, only we prefer the futuristic term “Facebook friend.” Second, as of this morning, I live with the source of that buzz: not, ee-lectricity, as it turns out, but cicadas!
I opened the front door this morning and found 9 ½ million cicadas, actually their exoskeletons, on my front porch. Where are the big red-eyed buggers themselves? In the trees making come hither noises. I.e. Buzzing. Loudly. Which translates to, “Check this out, babe. You know you want some.”
Cicadas are not subtle. You wouldn’t be either if your entire life consisted of waiting underground for 17 years to abandon your old skin (the cicada equivalent to shopping for trendy clothes) and search for one moment of perfect bliss. Come to think of it, that’s what I was like at 17. And I was nearly as loud.
I can’t wait till next month when the lightning bugs emerge with their little love-butts aglow.
Ah, summer romance.
Do y’all have cicadas or some other equally lusty critters in yore neck ‘o the woods? (Sorry, I slipped into that fake-Tex accent again.)