Either I have gone deaf or the 17 year cicadas are returning to the underground from which they came. Personally I think I am the only person that found comfort in the noise of their mating rituals; the incessant and very loud humming buzz. It was as if an old friend came to visit me. It sounds weird right? Tom seems to be a chip off the old block too. He said that he did not mind the sound either. There are certain sounds and smells that bring me right back to my childhood. They say that the sense of smell is one of the strongest when it comes to memories but I think that sound is right behind that.
Although not too old at the time, I do remember my first experience with the cicadas back in 1962 when Staten Island was predominantly woods in my town. The sound was deafening back then and the cicadas, which are a pretty formidable size at about an inch, covered the ground and hung on the trees for dear life. You could not walk a foot without stepping on them. Behind our house was a small farm that Mr. Haynes owned. He had ducks, chickens and a tremendous lot filled with all sorts of plantings. I can still see the ducks waddling with their bellies scraping on the ground because they were just so full of the delectable cicadas. That is when I learned from my mom, God bless her soul, that bugs were protein. Yuck mom, I will take your word for it.
This year, though, the sound bought me back to that simpler time and filled my heart with peace believe it or not. It was a time when my little island was not yet connected to Brooklyn and before the housing boom that now has created chaos and jammed streets filled with cars. I remember fondly the Memorial Day Parade in our town that drew the whole town and the local groups like the school bands, Boy and Girl Scouts, and the kids would decorate their bikes with red, white and blue streamers. A ceremony would be held in the town circle where the names would be read of those from our town that gave their lives for their country. While the head mucky mucks would give their speeches we kids would be trying our hardest to finish the ice cream cones that were in our hands before they melted right down to the elbow of the arm it was being held in. We, as a nation, were proud to be Americans.
It was a wonderful time where we, as kids, would play in the woods and climb trees, collect shells, colored glass and driftwood that had washed up on our beaches and where sitting under a tree during the hot Summer days reading your books for school (that were on that list) was a chore. (You know, THAT reading list.) The older I get the more I appreciate life back then. My parents did a very good job of giving me a childhood that was shielded by the Cuban Missile Crisis, The Cold War and The Vietnam War, though by age ten the ugliness of life started to seep into that bucolic life.
I wonder what it will be like when the cicadas return in 2030. I wonder if I will still be here and what my life will be like. I wonder if I will still have the religious freedoms that I have today or if they too will be buried underground. More and more every year Christmas is becoming a secular holiday where people like my neighbor, a Russian Jew, puts up a tree and decorations so his kid does not feel left out. If Thanksgiving, a NATIONAL holiday has people dashing out to stores for bargains right after sitting down to dinner, what will Christmas be like? How will our holiest of days, Easter, be treated? I read some sad facts just this morning. Only 5% of Christians have read the Bible, cover to cover. The average Catholic spends only 5 minutes a day in prayer. Last year 100,000 Christians were persecuted for their religious beliefs worldwide. What kind of America will the cicadas find in 2030? I guess it is time for the Christians to step up to the plate and start hitting some home runs for Jesus. That, at least, would be a step in the right direction.
Peace,
Mare
Although not too old at the time, I do remember my first experience with the cicadas back in 1962 when Staten Island was predominantly woods in my town. The sound was deafening back then and the cicadas, which are a pretty formidable size at about an inch, covered the ground and hung on the trees for dear life. You could not walk a foot without stepping on them. Behind our house was a small farm that Mr. Haynes owned. He had ducks, chickens and a tremendous lot filled with all sorts of plantings. I can still see the ducks waddling with their bellies scraping on the ground because they were just so full of the delectable cicadas. That is when I learned from my mom, God bless her soul, that bugs were protein. Yuck mom, I will take your word for it.
This year, though, the sound bought me back to that simpler time and filled my heart with peace believe it or not. It was a time when my little island was not yet connected to Brooklyn and before the housing boom that now has created chaos and jammed streets filled with cars. I remember fondly the Memorial Day Parade in our town that drew the whole town and the local groups like the school bands, Boy and Girl Scouts, and the kids would decorate their bikes with red, white and blue streamers. A ceremony would be held in the town circle where the names would be read of those from our town that gave their lives for their country. While the head mucky mucks would give their speeches we kids would be trying our hardest to finish the ice cream cones that were in our hands before they melted right down to the elbow of the arm it was being held in. We, as a nation, were proud to be Americans.
It was a wonderful time where we, as kids, would play in the woods and climb trees, collect shells, colored glass and driftwood that had washed up on our beaches and where sitting under a tree during the hot Summer days reading your books for school (that were on that list) was a chore. (You know, THAT reading list.) The older I get the more I appreciate life back then. My parents did a very good job of giving me a childhood that was shielded by the Cuban Missile Crisis, The Cold War and The Vietnam War, though by age ten the ugliness of life started to seep into that bucolic life.
I wonder what it will be like when the cicadas return in 2030. I wonder if I will still be here and what my life will be like. I wonder if I will still have the religious freedoms that I have today or if they too will be buried underground. More and more every year Christmas is becoming a secular holiday where people like my neighbor, a Russian Jew, puts up a tree and decorations so his kid does not feel left out. If Thanksgiving, a NATIONAL holiday has people dashing out to stores for bargains right after sitting down to dinner, what will Christmas be like? How will our holiest of days, Easter, be treated? I read some sad facts just this morning. Only 5% of Christians have read the Bible, cover to cover. The average Catholic spends only 5 minutes a day in prayer. Last year 100,000 Christians were persecuted for their religious beliefs worldwide. What kind of America will the cicadas find in 2030? I guess it is time for the Christians to step up to the plate and start hitting some home runs for Jesus. That, at least, would be a step in the right direction.
Peace,
Mare
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