SweetWitch
Green Goddess
- Joined
- Oct 9, 2005
- Posts
- 20,370
With a sound reminiscent of a campy 50’s sci-fi movie, the invasion has begun. It started out innocuous enough. I noticed just a few brown exoskeletons strewn about when I made repairs to our stone-inlaid patio. As I lifted the stones to add sand, a few creepy-looking creatures poked their heads out.
My daughter jumped back in fright. When I held up an iridescent discarded wing, she demanded to know what it was. Like all good, honest and forthright mothers, I told her it was a faery wing. Her hazel eyes grew big as silver dollars. “Really?” she whispered.
She grabbed her butterfly net and went faery hunting.
After finishing the patio and pressing my husband into service, we installed the gazebo that acts as my out-door office. After all the work I did, after all the running from wedding receptions and grad parties, after entertaining visitors between bouts of gardening, patio repairs, gazebo building and house cleaning, my poor ol’ body was aching. Sleep did not come easily—compounded by the still on-going graduation party two doors down. They had a live band, followed by a kick-ass stereo system that kept the neighborhood rocking until 2:12 AM. I’m not sure why the music died down at that particular time, but judging from the mass exodus of roaring engines, I’d say some of our boys in blue may have decided to break up the shindig.
Whatever the cause, the effect was I could finally close my eyes. Which lasted until 3:59. On a holiday. Can you say, “Cranky”? I can, in a lot of different tongues and gestures—not to mention numerous grunts. At 4:02, I stumbled to the living room, set flame to nicotine and turned on the tube.
There was a strange buzzing sound. Thinking the kid had left her game console on again, I stomped over to yank the plug out of the wall. The buzzing remained and it was growing louder. After deciding it was my lack of sleep, I turned up the volume on the set. This action seemed to antagonize the source behind the noise. It had ceased to be a buzz, graduating to a dull roar.
Tinnitus? In an unattractive move, I wiggled a finger in each ear, but the sound got louder. Screw it. I dressed and left to hit the grocery store before the morning crowds.
You ever get that sickening feeling when your shoe goes crunch on the concrete? That’s what I experienced when I stepped from the sanctum of the garage to the driveway. My first thought? “Oh, gross!”
Scraping the squished carcass from the bottom of my shoe, I cast a wary eye about the place. They were everywhere, on the screens, falling from the trees, crawling on the ground. One landed in my hair. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing quite as humorous as a sleep-deprived, limping woman doing the “get-it-off-me!” dance in her driveway at 6:00 AM.
As I said, the invasion has begun. Brood XIX, they call it. Like that bad 50’s sci-fi flick, horrendous-looking black creatures with huge wings and blood-red eyes glared at me as if I was on the menu—hundreds of them. A chill ran over my weary bones.
Back home from the store, I stowed the groceries and made for the sanctuary of my Fortress of Solitude. My mother bought me a lovely fountain a couple of years ago, which babbles happily, but I can’t hear it for the song of the cicada. Yes, it’s that seemingly mythical emergence of the 13-year cicada—otherwise known as the Magicicada.
Some might call it beautiful, but my child would call it terrifying. It’s most prominent features are the afore-mentioned eyes. They almost glow in the early morning light. The ground, trees, gazebo, deck and garden plants are bejeweled with their discarded skins. (Who among us didn’t collect those bug shells and stick them to our clothes when we were kids? Go ahead. Try to deny it.)
So, I wanted to find out a little more about our friends of Brood XIX. Ain’t Google a wondrous thing? Here’s what I found out:
1. They’re basically harmless, but can, on occasion, mistake human limbs for tree limbs and bite. They’re not venomous, so not to worry.
2. If it’s not warm enough, they won’t emerge, mature or mate. That would account for the late emergence. Winter here was very harsh and has only recently released its grip on the landscape.
3. Their strategy is called “predator satiation”. This means they produce such numbers that anything enjoying the taste of these thumb-sized insects will soon fill up and be unable to eat anymore. As I recall from my childhood days on the farm, voracious chickens will snatch them up as fast as they emerge until any hen going after another tasty bite suddenly stops and thinks twice. Another one just won’t fit. Our Bichon snacked on a couple this morning. Yuck.
4. Many cicadas emerge crippled or sick. There’s a known fungus which attacks and kills them. And still, they produce enough numbers to repopulate for the next emergence in thirteen years.
5. Cicadas die off in sufficient numbers that their rotting corpses will create a rancid stench. Ew! Better start planning the buggy funeral now. In six weeks your yard will be littered with winged cadavers.
6. They live on liquid found in twigs and branches. This is their only food source. You know what that means, right?
7. You guessed it! They pee. They pee when they fly, meaning hats are no longer optional.
So, dear readers, when you go out into the world over the next few weeks, wear hearing protection, prepare for the crunching of their bodies underfoot (i.e. wear shoes or get gooey bug guts between your toes) and beware of golden showers from the sky.
My daughter jumped back in fright. When I held up an iridescent discarded wing, she demanded to know what it was. Like all good, honest and forthright mothers, I told her it was a faery wing. Her hazel eyes grew big as silver dollars. “Really?” she whispered.
She grabbed her butterfly net and went faery hunting.
After finishing the patio and pressing my husband into service, we installed the gazebo that acts as my out-door office. After all the work I did, after all the running from wedding receptions and grad parties, after entertaining visitors between bouts of gardening, patio repairs, gazebo building and house cleaning, my poor ol’ body was aching. Sleep did not come easily—compounded by the still on-going graduation party two doors down. They had a live band, followed by a kick-ass stereo system that kept the neighborhood rocking until 2:12 AM. I’m not sure why the music died down at that particular time, but judging from the mass exodus of roaring engines, I’d say some of our boys in blue may have decided to break up the shindig.
Whatever the cause, the effect was I could finally close my eyes. Which lasted until 3:59. On a holiday. Can you say, “Cranky”? I can, in a lot of different tongues and gestures—not to mention numerous grunts. At 4:02, I stumbled to the living room, set flame to nicotine and turned on the tube.
There was a strange buzzing sound. Thinking the kid had left her game console on again, I stomped over to yank the plug out of the wall. The buzzing remained and it was growing louder. After deciding it was my lack of sleep, I turned up the volume on the set. This action seemed to antagonize the source behind the noise. It had ceased to be a buzz, graduating to a dull roar.
Tinnitus? In an unattractive move, I wiggled a finger in each ear, but the sound got louder. Screw it. I dressed and left to hit the grocery store before the morning crowds.
You ever get that sickening feeling when your shoe goes crunch on the concrete? That’s what I experienced when I stepped from the sanctum of the garage to the driveway. My first thought? “Oh, gross!”
Scraping the squished carcass from the bottom of my shoe, I cast a wary eye about the place. They were everywhere, on the screens, falling from the trees, crawling on the ground. One landed in my hair. Let me tell you, ladies and gentlemen, there’s nothing quite as humorous as a sleep-deprived, limping woman doing the “get-it-off-me!” dance in her driveway at 6:00 AM.
As I said, the invasion has begun. Brood XIX, they call it. Like that bad 50’s sci-fi flick, horrendous-looking black creatures with huge wings and blood-red eyes glared at me as if I was on the menu—hundreds of them. A chill ran over my weary bones.
Back home from the store, I stowed the groceries and made for the sanctuary of my Fortress of Solitude. My mother bought me a lovely fountain a couple of years ago, which babbles happily, but I can’t hear it for the song of the cicada. Yes, it’s that seemingly mythical emergence of the 13-year cicada—otherwise known as the Magicicada.
Some might call it beautiful, but my child would call it terrifying. It’s most prominent features are the afore-mentioned eyes. They almost glow in the early morning light. The ground, trees, gazebo, deck and garden plants are bejeweled with their discarded skins. (Who among us didn’t collect those bug shells and stick them to our clothes when we were kids? Go ahead. Try to deny it.)
So, I wanted to find out a little more about our friends of Brood XIX. Ain’t Google a wondrous thing? Here’s what I found out:
1. They’re basically harmless, but can, on occasion, mistake human limbs for tree limbs and bite. They’re not venomous, so not to worry.
2. If it’s not warm enough, they won’t emerge, mature or mate. That would account for the late emergence. Winter here was very harsh and has only recently released its grip on the landscape.
3. Their strategy is called “predator satiation”. This means they produce such numbers that anything enjoying the taste of these thumb-sized insects will soon fill up and be unable to eat anymore. As I recall from my childhood days on the farm, voracious chickens will snatch them up as fast as they emerge until any hen going after another tasty bite suddenly stops and thinks twice. Another one just won’t fit. Our Bichon snacked on a couple this morning. Yuck.
4. Many cicadas emerge crippled or sick. There’s a known fungus which attacks and kills them. And still, they produce enough numbers to repopulate for the next emergence in thirteen years.
5. Cicadas die off in sufficient numbers that their rotting corpses will create a rancid stench. Ew! Better start planning the buggy funeral now. In six weeks your yard will be littered with winged cadavers.
6. They live on liquid found in twigs and branches. This is their only food source. You know what that means, right?
7. You guessed it! They pee. They pee when they fly, meaning hats are no longer optional.
So, dear readers, when you go out into the world over the next few weeks, wear hearing protection, prepare for the crunching of their bodies underfoot (i.e. wear shoes or get gooey bug guts between your toes) and beware of golden showers from the sky.
Good to see you, darlin'. How are things with you and yours?
