Sunday afternoon, listening to the local NPR station, The Moth Radio Hour. I remember poetry slams where people did their little bit of spoken word and at the end, they picked a winner. It was sort of in-your-face: I can ‘Poem’ better than you. At The Moth, people tell true stories, drawn from their lives, in front of a live audience and everybody wins. It’s about the story, not the winner. Today a man with young children told about his wife’s struggle with cancer; actually his struggle with her cancer. She didn’t die, no complications, it was just bad enough she had to go the full radiology-chemo regime but a year later she rang the bell, six months after that she is still cancer free.
He’s a good performer, his story was polished, timed and delivered without a break. In 14-15 minutes, I kept waiting for the other shoe to fall but it never did. The happy ending was anticlimactic. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have a dear someone who has been down that path. I remember when that diagnosis was a death sentence. I suppose I would have been wound tight as well if it were the mother of my small children, and it was after all, his story.
Telling story is both an art and a craft. I’m sure they have open-mic tryouts where they advance the best. If all things go well, they get to be on the ‘Big Show’ - sort of like American Idol. Some are simply, stand-up comics or actors with performing experience. But the story is the star and that’s a good thing. How about this? Yesterday I needed a small, decorative bottle with a cork. Last year while floating the Grand Canyon we saw mountain sheep on the river bank. An hour later when we made camp we saw their foot prints in sand and lots of small, pellets in little piles or strung out like a string of beads. I picked some up and stored them in a zip-lock baggie. I just rediscovered them and needed a container to display my Grand Canyon Sheep Shit.
When I started my pickup, I noticed a cicada on the arm of the windshield wiper. I thought it would fly as soon as I began to move. Two blocks up the hill, turbulence coming over the hood was making it hard to hang on but the big insect was hanging tight. I had to make a decision; was I going to become part of this story or what? At 30 mph. the critter had moved slightly, toward the windshield glass and down, behind the wiper arm. I thought, ‘All right - this little bugger is going for it.’ The Olympics fire up next week and I’m in the mood to root for athletes who overcome adversity.
I drove slow, around 30 mph. Cars backed up behind me but the limit was 35 and nobody was honking. I thought about cicada’s situation. It can’t fly this fast and a slip now would be disaster. So I started praying to the insect god for a strong grasp; not actually but I was concerned for its well being. At stop signs I was anxious that it would fly off but it just wasn’t in any mood to go anywhere. Cicadas are True Bugs, from the family Hemiptra. They can live underground for years as larva but when they emerge they climb up the nearest tree and shed their shell. It’s hard to believe that big headed, big eyed creature ever fit inside the empty shells they leave behind, split open down the back, clinging to tree trunks in the summer. In that way, they are like butterflies. The veins in the wings are little vessels that pump full of fluid to give the wing form and strength. The body expands from internal pressure, like a dry sponge in water. When it’s ready, and not before, it will fly away. I wondered if my friend on the wiper had stopped there before it finished metamorphosizing, (did I just invent a word?)
All the stops, turns and changes in speed, the cicada made the trip from Grandview to Martin City; it must be 4 miles with a dozen or more stops and turns. As I parked in the lot outside the World Market store, I could see it move so I knew it was alive. I really did become part of the story. Had I gone faster, like everyone behind me wanted, I’m sure it would have been curtains for the cicada. Then I had to ask, does this make me Pro Life? I take it literally, you've gotta love it all. I've gotta believe a new cicada, singing in the trees is as important as a human embryo. Well, I sheltered it when it need shelter. When I came out of the store with my new, sheep shit bottle the cicada had flown. Then last night I heard them, cicada cousins, in the trees, calling out; “Hey, Joaquin; donde estas?” (. . . where are you?) - I tightened up my throat muscles and gave my best cicada call: “Rheeee-a-rheeeee-a-rheeee”, (He’s over in Martin City.) It’s probably not up to The Moth Hour standard but it’s my story.
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