After living 17 years in the dirt, cicadas, eager to party, put depressed Americans to shame
Dan Brawner
May 22, 2007
What if somebody told you this was your last chance to have any fun at all until 2024? Would you mope around, grumbling about Alberto Gonzales? Or would you party like it’s 1999?
Or rather 1990. Because that’s the last time the Midwest saw the emergence of billions of cicadas. These grotesquely beautiful bugs with their bulging red eyes and deafening buzz spend 17 years underground, patiently sucking tree sap in the dark, waiting for their coming-out party. And this year is their year.
As soon as the ground temperature reaches 65 degrees, the invasion will begin. All across the nation’s breadbasket, the hypnotic whine of cicadas will wash over the land like a tidal wave as folks check to see what in the world is the matter with their hearing aids.
Billions of cicadas will emerge from their entomologic monastery, eager to renounce their vows and wallow in earthly pleasure. After 17 years underground, they get one month in the sun–to sing, mate and die. This is Woodstock. This is the Summer of Love. Cicadas are oblivious to the fact that they are high in protein and low in fat and that every bird and dog in the neighborhood will devour them like popcorn at a Harry Potter movie.
With cicadas, it’s a numbers game. There are billions of them and the odds are good that enough of them will live to mate. Each female can lay 600 eggs. After six weeks, the gruesome little grubs burrow into the earth and wait for another 17 years. It’s a metaphor for the exuberance of Nature–for the cycle of death and rebirth–for the triumph of an apparently pointless life form.
But unlike the curiously optimistic cicadas, Americans are depressed these days. A new AP-Ipsos poll shows that only 25 percent of us think the country is headed in the right direction. This is the lowest level since the poll began in 2003. Americans are pessimistic about the war in Iraq and we don’t like our political leaders. We’re gloomy about gas prices and loss of moral values, and well, lots of stuff.
It’s as if Americans don’t know that it’s spring! After a long, cold winter, I can finally shut off my heat and open the windows. Outside, the sun is shining and it’s 78 degrees. Wild flowers are blooming. Robins are hopping around like they’re on pogo sticks. Sure gas prices are high. But there are fresh strawberries in the refrigerator! Come on! How can anybody be depressed on a day like this?
I mean, what if, after 17 years underground, billions of cicadas broke out into the sunlight and said to themselves, “Oh, what’s the use?” That would be the end of them. But in spite of the immediate dangers and their inevitable demise, they shed their dry exoskeleton like a sad memory and leave it behind while they get down to the business of living.
In a few weeks, when the cicadas emerge, it would be a disgrace if we were not also doing our biological duty and celebrating the season. We can clean up Washington and enjoy lemonade simultaneously. It’s going to be a great summer.
Just remember to turn down your hearing aides.
Or rather 1990. Because that’s the last time the Midwest saw the emergence of billions of cicadas. These grotesquely beautiful bugs with their bulging red eyes and deafening buzz spend 17 years underground, patiently sucking tree sap in the dark, waiting for their coming-out party. And this year is their year.
As soon as the ground temperature reaches 65 degrees, the invasion will begin. All across the nation’s breadbasket, the hypnotic whine of cicadas will wash over the land like a tidal wave as folks check to see what in the world is the matter with their hearing aids.
Billions of cicadas will emerge from their entomologic monastery, eager to renounce their vows and wallow in earthly pleasure. After 17 years underground, they get one month in the sun–to sing, mate and die. This is Woodstock. This is the Summer of Love. Cicadas are oblivious to the fact that they are high in protein and low in fat and that every bird and dog in the neighborhood will devour them like popcorn at a Harry Potter movie.
With cicadas, it’s a numbers game. There are billions of them and the odds are good that enough of them will live to mate. Each female can lay 600 eggs. After six weeks, the gruesome little grubs burrow into the earth and wait for another 17 years. It’s a metaphor for the exuberance of Nature–for the cycle of death and rebirth–for the triumph of an apparently pointless life form.
But unlike the curiously optimistic cicadas, Americans are depressed these days. A new AP-Ipsos poll shows that only 25 percent of us think the country is headed in the right direction. This is the lowest level since the poll began in 2003. Americans are pessimistic about the war in Iraq and we don’t like our political leaders. We’re gloomy about gas prices and loss of moral values, and well, lots of stuff.
It’s as if Americans don’t know that it’s spring! After a long, cold winter, I can finally shut off my heat and open the windows. Outside, the sun is shining and it’s 78 degrees. Wild flowers are blooming. Robins are hopping around like they’re on pogo sticks. Sure gas prices are high. But there are fresh strawberries in the refrigerator! Come on! How can anybody be depressed on a day like this?
I mean, what if, after 17 years underground, billions of cicadas broke out into the sunlight and said to themselves, “Oh, what’s the use?” That would be the end of them. But in spite of the immediate dangers and their inevitable demise, they shed their dry exoskeleton like a sad memory and leave it behind while they get down to the business of living.
In a few weeks, when the cicadas emerge, it would be a disgrace if we were not also doing our biological duty and celebrating the season. We can clean up Washington and enjoy lemonade simultaneously. It’s going to be a great summer.
Just remember to turn down your hearing aides.
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