CHECK CHECK, 3-86 Y

Back in early June I wrote a piece about 17-year cicadas. They had a big turnout this year and the tree limbs were covered with abandoned exoskeletons. They had been living happily underground as grubs all those years and what do you know, they all decided to go topside, crawl up a tree and split their seams. Once out of the old attire they spread their wings and began singing. It was awesome. Now it’s mid August and the 13-year brood is doing their thing. They were all over the low hanging branches of my Cypress tree. I gave up on my insect collection about the time my twins were born, 1971. I have no place to keep them but the shells must be good for something. I collected a bunch and brought them inside, counted them; 17 cicada shells. ‘That’s almost enough for a football game’ I thought. So I went back out and got five more. A piece of felt on the kitchen table, it wasn’t green but it was a place to play. I lined up an offense and a defense, their claws stuck in the felt and they stood there like they were waiting for somebody to call a play. There was no way to get them moving, those brittle legs would break off and then they wouldn’t be good for anything. 

There is no substitute for imagination. When my kids were little they made believe a walnut was a car and pushed it around the roots of a tree, making motor sounds and screeched tires when they slid to a stop. They set up clothes pin soldiers on the table and shot them with rubber bands. I can do that, they had to get it from somewhere. So I set the defense and called a play, a sweep to the wide side of the table, The cicadas had all the plays memorized. Then, at the line, I looked at the defense and changed the play; Check-Check, 3-86 Y; that’s a pass to the tight end. The center hiked the ball and all 22 cicadas started bumping into each other; my QB dropped back to pass. The TE caught the ball for an 11 yard gain, all in my mind of course. After about five or six plays I decided I was too old to be doing this; after so many years imagination loses some of its edge and you start thinking about something else, like throwing stones at squirrels or checking the cookie jar. 

I’ll be up early tomorrow, in the pool at 5:30. When I get home I’ll be hungry but I’ll have to clean up the mess on the table before I can eat and I’ll have another laugh from all of my silliness. But I do love cicadas, just the idea that they spend all that time in the dirty dark and come out for just a day or two, to fly off, sing their Ree-ah Ree-ah Ree-ah songs and make some whoopee. Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it. Let’s do it, let’s fall in love,{Ella Fitzgerald}. She knew exactly; I’d sing too.