And think of the summers of the past

Every year, whether it was back in Maryland or here in Ohio, summer seems to sneak up on me. Spring's arrival pops in and out like a game of peek-a-boo, and by the time I feel secure in thinking winter is finally in the rearview, the temperatures fluctuate like teenage hormones and boom, it's in the 80s. Suddenly, summer swells. 

Even though the temps may rise, I can't call it summer until school is out for the kids. Here, that comes a couple weeks earlier than we used to be accustomed to, and we've been able to relax over Memorial Day Weekend without thinking about a return to school on Tuesday. Summer can be officially called by the end of May.

But when my thoughts go to summer during any other season, there's one aspect that comes to mind first, the official soundtrack to summer-- the sound of the cicadas. 

Three stages of one annual cicada in our yard in Maryland, 2015.

The chorus of the annual cicadas may come later in the summer by the calendar, but to me, that sound confirms the true feel of the season. When we moved to Ohio in early July a couple years ago, I remember the first time I heard the cicadas, because I became immediately perplexed. The sound was more of an up-down-up-down buzz, where I was used to an up-up-Up-UP-DOWN-Down-down-down buzz. Little did I realize the number of different species of annual cicadas there are or that we had moved into a different species' range. After recording snippets of the new species, I was able to find someone online who could identify the new-to-me kind-- the Scissor Grinder Cicada. The name makes total sense to me, and I don't think I'll ever forget it. I'm pretty sure that our (old) fair city rocked the Linne's Cicada each summer, as that one sounds the most familiar to me. Man, the interwebs are everything this wannabe-entomologist could ever dream of.

Now, the annual cicadas may come every summer to sing their hearts out looking for some lovin', but they don't get the media coverage that certain other species do. I'm looking at you, Magicicada septendecim, especially the most popular of the periodical cicadas, Brood X.

I wish I had even just one picture to put in here from my introduction to Brood X, but alas, I cannot find one, try as I may. Had we had smartphones back in the day, I'd have a ton, but apparently I never thought to drag out the fancy digital camera during the month of May. Instead, you'll have to picture it, Prince George's County, Maryland, 2004. JAM was to turn four later that summer, and he was fascinated by the arrival of the Brood X cicadas. Each day, he and I would sit at the bus stop across the street from our teeny-tiny-townhouse, and he would worry about the cicadas that decided to play their buggy games in the middle of the street. It quickly became my routine responsibility to go into the street and gather up as many cicadas as I could and sweep them over to the grassy areas away from traffic. JAM was happy to watch the cicadas crawl around on the ground and up the tree trunks, but that joy could immediately turn into panic if one (or more!) decided to fly at him. When we're talking about periodical cicada emergences, we're talking about WAY MORE cicadas than most people can even fathom, so it's inevitable that if you're near a tree, you're going to have some clumsy cicadas fly into your body and land on your person. 

Thankfully, the memories that now 20-year-old JAM has are happy ones. I tried, in vain, to find the University of Maryland Entomology Department's cicada t-shirt that he wore the hell out of that summer, but apparently my sentimental self somehow didn't pack it away in one of the memory boxes. Even without any tangible items to show for our experiences 17 years ago, Brood X has always held a special place in my memories. It was ridiculously unbelievable to say to little preschooler JAM that he'd be a grown-up when they came back again. It's an impossible task to look at your three-year-old and envision them as an adult. 

And yet, here we are. Seventeen years have passed since I was the Official Rescuer of Wayward Brood X Cicadas as we awaited our morning bus, and we're no longer calling PG County our home. In fact, our timing was off by only two months when we came to Southeast Ohio five years ago, for we just missed the emergence of Brood V, another 17-year periodical cicada! 

With the pandemic still upon us, we didn't make plans to return to Maryland to see the children of our 2004 pals, so I've been living vicariously through the photos posted by friends, either in wonderment or disgust, and trying to be thankful that I had at least those to enjoy. But one thing that I learned about Brood X is that they're not isolated to the East Coast. In fact, some of them even call our own state of Ohio their home, albeit more than two hours west of ours. 

But when you're lucky enough to have friends who are either just as interested in all things bug or are willing to at least go along for the ride, you figure out a way to see the cicadas. The most important factor is a partner who is happy to indulge your interest, even if it means he has to drive five-ish hours in one day. It needs to be noted that said partner is-- in no way-- into bugs at all, so this represents true love. 

Today was the day to hop in our cars and head west in search of Brood X. We met at Caesar Creek State Park, and while we had a morning of gorgeous weather, a lovely walk in the woods, and a relaxing picnic lunch at the marina, what we did not have were any cicadas. Apparently, we didn't go far enough west. Looking at these photos, it's clear that it was hard to be completely disappointed.

Utterly gorgeous day.

Stone skipping worthy of celebration.

Is it just me, or is this a toilet tree?

While we ate lunch, I took a peek at the Cicada Safari app, just to see how much farther we'd have to travel to get to a place where there were documented sightings of Brood X. Twelve miles was the answer. TWELVE MILES. Okay, that twelve miles meant about a half hour in the car in not-exactly-the-right direction, but our trio was up for it. Spying a cicada was clearly important to JAM, too, since he'd come on this trip fresh off an 8-hour overnight shift of work, instead of going home and going to bed before working another overnight shift! We parted ways with our pals and headed to a community park in the area of the posted sightings. 

The whole drive there, my mind raced with worried thoughts. What if we get there and see no cicadas? What if I read the map wrong? What if it's a bust and I've added even more time on a long day trip? Anxious anticipation was in full gear. I tried to look at tree trunks we passed in search of hanging cicada molts, but unfortunately, my 45-year-old eyes couldn't process that from a moving vehicle. Instead, I worried for a full thirty minutes until we parked and I opened the passenger door.

There it was. The sound of summer. Times a billion.

Immediately, we all knew that we'd hit the jackpot, and to drive the point home, as soon as JAM exited the car, a cicada flew right at him. Talk about a flashback moment! I didn't have to talk him down this time, 17 years later, but we did crack the hell up at the timing. My first observation of this iteration of Brood X was of the three cicadas on the blacktop of the parking lot, and just like I did all those years ago, I swooped up the alive one and moved them over to a tree. Damn, history repeating itself all over the place.

My first cicada friend of 2021.

Then we walked to a grassy area with trees and we were engulfed in the sights and sounds that the periodical cicadas bring. 

I couldn't hide my joy. I was fucking giddy. Hubby documented this with video that will stay locked up in the cloud, there for me to revisit when I need a reminder of pure wonder. We walked along the grass, some of us more carefully choosing our steps than others, as the ground was awash with cicadas. 

My baby-turned-man making sure to not step on any alive cicadas!

The cicadas were everywhere. Their songs filled our ears, louder than the lawn mower not too far away, and putting up a stiff competition for the airplane that flew overhead. Hubby found it funny to lightly shake a branch that I was standing under and watch as tons of cicadas took flight all around me. Even though I squealed in surprise, I remained giddy AF. Unlike 17 years ago, this time I took a ton of photos, especially knowing 2021 was going to be a one-and-done encounter. 

So. Many. Cicadas.

G I D D Y .

Aren't they just gorgeous??

Hubby being a landing site.

We walked around a little pond at this park, with frequent stops to get close-up views of individuals and groups of cicadas, of course. I handled quite a few, telling as many as I could that I knew their east coast ancestors. Thankfully, the park was pretty empty, so there were few witnesses to my atypical adult behavior, but it didn't matter because I only had eyes-- and ears-- for the cicadas. To be able to experience this with JAM was priceless, the memory I couldn't even imagine making 17 years ago as I walked onto our road, again and again, to relocate those wayward cicadas. 

The height differential used to be quite different...

I can't help but wonder where we'll all be in 2038. Even saying the year 2038 sounds absurd-- that's going to be a year? Back when JAM was wearing size 5T clothes, the year 2021 sounded ridiculous, too. Wherever life may take us, I do hope that JAM and I will get the chance to see the next round of Brood X together. Hubby and the other kids are welcome, too, though I know that no one else loves it as much as us.

Until we meet again, you magical cicadas...

Title inspiration: "Summertime" by DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince