Brilliant … But Bouncy

It’s The Humane Thing To Do.

We are inundated with cicadas. Their call is constant, fierce and soothing. Their clunky bodies ram into walls and windows all day, sometimes stunning themselves and other times bouncing off and flying to the trees.

There are dead cicadas all over the yard, the deck, the driveway. I assume they’re piling up on our roof. Seventeen years ago, our house was built in this exact spot. Since we unearthed a slew of land to create the house, we have fewer cicadas than most. Still they gather on parked cars and coat our shrubbery. We often keep our home’s windows closed due to the noise, and our car windows up so they don’t surprise us as we drive.

I am sensitive and careful; I want to save all the cicadas. Obviously they are all going to drop dead in a few weeks, and their eggs will miraculously plant themselves underground for another 17 years, but I still want to help. I don’t see any point in letting them suffer.

When a cicada is on its back and desperately wiggling its feet because it’s too stupid to figure out how to flip itself upright (Use your wings!), I step in. I offer the cicada a stick or finger or leaf so that it can right itself and/or fly away. Before driving anywhere, I walk the length of our driveway and rescue any cicadas that are still moving so I don’t run them over with my car. When I walk the dog, I reposition cicadas from the center of the walking path to the grass so they aren’t crushed like … well, like bugs.

Playing softball is a special kind of challenge – more so for me than for the cicadas. Even while immersed in a close game, I can’t help but see every, single cicada as it flies by – swirling up toward the trees, nose-diving into the grass, or landing on one of my teammates. And when one is climbing up my leg or exploring my glove, it makes it tough to concentrate on catching the ball.

For whatever reason, when a cicada plummets into the dirt of the infield, it can almost never recover. It’s immediately caked in the red dust that is the stuff of dreams for ball players. Cicadas are oblivious to the giant cleats that can so easily cause their demise, but when one lands in the baseline – even if I’m on base – I have to grab it and send it back into flight. It only takes a second, and it’s the humane thing to do.

During one of these rescues on my way to the outfield, the left fielder snarled at me, “Kill it. There’s enough of them already.”

“They are great for the environment,” I told him. “They have a ton of protein and all kinds of animals eat them, so they’re helping every species!”

He wasn’t swayed. “The only thing that’s good about these cicadas,” he said, “is that I won’t be here the next time they come around!”

I laughed and sent the cicada buzzing off into the air – but I thought about what he said. Would he be around in 17 years? He’s in his 70s so technically, he could still be here. With his luck, he probably will live just long enough.

Then I thought: how old will I be the next time Brood X emerges? There’s a chance I can experience this not once, but even twice more in my lifetime! I would be 73 and 90 if I do.

I just hope I can bend down and save them then, too.