I’d say the cicada population peaked on my beat this week. Driving down Cumberland / Irving/ Des Plaines / Lawrence, one had to close the windows or tolerate a carload of squaking, flying cicadas.
I observed two young men pulled over on the side of the road. One stood back cautiously, while the other tried to shoo the cicadas out with a coat hanger. I thought of helping them and calmly lifting the insects out of the car, but it was too much fun to watch.
Later, I laughed at two teenage girls waiting for a bus, as they were barraged by flying cicadas. The look of fear on their faces was priceless. Yet, when I got out of the car a block later, I screamed like a little girl, diving back inside. There were more cicadas flying about crazed than I had ever seen before. I watched in fascination as thousands swarmed around my windows, seeking ingress. It was terrifying, and I loved it.
I’ve actually gotten quite used to having cicadas crawl all over my body. Still, I don’t like it when they climb on the back of my neck, and of course that’s where they seem to like to go. I’ve noticed some people have taken to wearing hoodies up, even despite the heat, to mitigate this problem. Even now it feels like one is crawling back there.
Cicadas are notoriously poor flyers and I’ll never get used to them bouncing off my face, fluttering in my ears, or crawling behind my glasses. While it would be nice to have a pic of a cicada crawling on my eyeball, I don’t think I’m going to pull that off.
I’ve done some research as to why cicadas are in some areas and missing in others and have found no reasonable explanation. I’ve seen no cicadas at the house where I grew up in Lincolnwood despite the fact that I remember them distinctly 34 years ago. The only thing I remember about cicadas from 17 years ago was Steve Dahl’s parody song, set to the tune of Gloria, but my dad remembers their presence then. I’ve checked the LTH picnic site several times and came up empty there also.
The “experts” keep saying the ground needs to be long undisturbed, there needs to have been a previous population, and the soil needs to rise about 64 degrees (at what depth?). Many areas meet all these qualifications and yet still no cicadas. And yes, I have been walking around poking a thermometer in the ground. I’m sick of the experts.
I mentioned Steve Dahl, so I might as well mention that his son Matt ate cicadas (and then threw up) every night on his show the week ending 6/01/07. It’s funny if juvenile. Podcasts are available
here.
When I was doing the “metamorphosis” shoot I attracted a group of Japanese tourists, high-tech cameras in hand. I was shocked to meet them so deep in the woods and even more shocked that they didn’t know anything about the cicadas. I lectured them for some time on the wily ways of the cicada and they were a rapt and fascinated audience. Of course, I’m not sure how much they really understood, and their only verbal response to me, often repeated, was, “you crazy.” They must have taken 10,000 shots to my hundred, excitedly encouraging each other in Japanese. When I went to leave, they stopped me, seems they were actually lost, and needed a guide back to their cars. I regret that we did not exchange email information – if would have been cool to see the pictures they got with all that fancy equipment they were toting – too bad that didn’t include a compass.
After seeing the same group of Asian women fearlessly collecting cicadas in shopping bags, I decided to approach them. They did not want their pictures taken but I did record my interview which is pretty much drowned out by the cicadas. I learned that the women were from Viet Nam. They like to eat the cicadas but it was as much about medicine as food. They claimed eating cicadas kept them young. They stir fried the cicadas, sans wings, with garlic and any handy vegetables. Not everyone in the family ate them, some were afraid, but most did. They were freezing many of them for later consumption and also shipping them off to relatives all over the world. I asked if they ever tried to get them when they first came out of the ground and they said they were never that lucky. They were charming people and for a while I helped them in their gathering enjoying their language and laughter.
I’ve mentioned before that now, when I pick a cicada up, I cannot count on their previous docility. Many will chatter in protest, defiantly demanding release. You can hear this protest chatter
here.
Much has been said about the cicadas’ randiness. Listening to the experts, I had assumed all this congress would take place at the top of trees, not right on the sidewalk. In truth, I was happy to see it. I felt sorry for the cicadas that did not or could not master flight and thought they’d be left out of the fun. And so many imaginative positions! I’ll spare you more pictures of this for now, but in the interest of science, I will show what I assume to be the aftermath:
It looks to me like the back quarter of the female’s (or male for all I know) thorax has been torn off, leaving a white, unformed area. I’m guessing this is where the eggs are developing.
I fear we have reached the crescendo soon to be followed by the
dénouement.
In conclusion, I would like to say, with all sincerity:
Bring me the blue-eyed cicada or this guy gets it!
-ramon
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