Sketch Courtesy of Ann Telnaes
It started a week ago. I noticed several clumps of brown leaves lying on the grass. I never made the connection between this trashing of my lawn and the invasion that followed.
At the same time, I witnessed the arrival of scores of crows that descended on my lawn in vast swaths. Their numbers were so massive that it looked like someone had draped the yard with a black tarp. They appeared to pick my yard clean and then move on to my neighbors’ lawn with creepy precision.
Both events were a portend to what happened yesterday.
I am officially retired now. Yesterday was Day One of my newfound freedom. Sophie, my little furkid, and I were enjoying a lazy breakfast on the deck. She was dining on a delectable chicken jerky treat and I was savoring a plate of grits, scrambled eggs, hot sausage and a warm, fluffy buttermilk biscuit.
The serenity of the morning was pierced by the deafening, screeching sound of a high-speed drill bit going through steel. (A search of the Internet revealed that some cicadas can register over 100 decibels when singing.)
Singing? It’s one of the most annoying sounds I know other than the sound of The Insufferable Airhorn AKA The World’s Most Dangerous Community Organizer.
Last year, you’ll recall, everyone was anticipating the arrival of the 13 and 17-year cicadas. I would be thankful if I only had to deal with these hideously ugly insects every so often, but I am cursed with the arrival of these prehistoric looking creatures every damned year.
There’s an old wives’ tale about the wings of cicadas. Supposedly, if you look closely, you will either see the shape of a “W” or a “P” near the tip of their wings, signifying war or peace. I can assure you homegirl ain’t gonna look to see if the letters are there.
The emergence of the cicadas can last as long as 8 weeks. That means that once again I will have to knock the grotesque exoskeletons they shed off the bricks of my house and sweep their exhausted, nasty bodies off the deck.
I hate these things. Can you tell?