Just a whisper of summer’s arrival, and nature’s orchestra begins to tune up, with the cicada leading the charge. For many, the sound of cicadas is synonymous with the heat-drenched days and balmy evenings of summertime. It’s a sound that drills into your memory, instantly transporting you to long afternoons spent outdoors, the sun high in the sky, and the world buzzing with life. While some might find their chorus overwhelming, for those who truly listen, the cicada song is the definitive soundtrack of summer.
Cicada on a leaf, close-up view, detailed wings and body
It’s funny how regional news cycles work. Not long ago, the buzz was all about the Brood II cicadas, those legendary insects that emerge en masse every 17 years. The anticipation was palpable, especially for those who relish the sheer volume of their collective song. As someone who appreciates the unique sonic signature of cicadas – perhaps more than the insect itself – I was definitely intrigued. But then came the news that for some, was a bit of a letdown: Long Island was, geographically speaking, out of the loop. Apparently, the Brood II lineage decided generations ago that Long Island wasn’t part of their 17-year summer itinerary.
However, let’s be clear, Long Island is far from silent in the cicada department. We have our own resident populations, serenading us each summer. It’s just that we’re not experiencing the overwhelming phenomenon of a 17-year brood emergence. We have our annual cicada song, a constant reminder that summer is in full swing, even if it’s not making national headlines for sheer insect numbers. It’s a consistent, if less dramatic, celebration of summer sound.
And in that spirit of celebrating this quintessential summer sound, I wanted to revisit a reflection on my deep appreciation for the cicada song and the memories it evokes.
The Sizzling Symphony of Cicadas: A Summer Soundscape
It’s undeniably hot outside, the kind of heat that makes the air shimmer. I’m watching the sprinkler arc across the zinnias, their vibrant colors popping even in the strong sunlight. But even the soothing rush of water is almost completely drowned out by the relentless, buzzing, chirping drone of the cicadas. Some might describe it as a nuisance, a relentless sonic assault. But for me, this constant cicada song is anything but irritating. It’s a trigger for memories, a spark for the imagination, and an essential element of the summer experience.
Growing up, we kids, like many others, mistakenly called these buzzing insects “locusts.” Accuracy aside, the name didn’t matter. No sound, by any name, conjures up the dog days of summer quite like the cicada song. It’s a natural sound effect, a sizzling backdrop that perfectly amplifies the sun’s intense rays scorching the earth. It’s a continuous sizzle that seems to demand stillness, mirroring the heavy, humid air. As one wave of chirps fades slightly, another chorus immediately rises to take its place, an endless loop of summer sound.
Beyond the sound, there was a fascination with the physical remnants of these summer singers. I vividly remember the captivating treasure hunts for cicada shells – the discarded exoskeletons left behind after the nymph stage. These empty shells, resembling miniature alien creatures from a sci-fi movie, could be found clinging to almost anything: the undersides of chairs, patio furniture, plant stems, tree branches – everywhere. Their ability to grip surfaces made them perfect for harmless pranks, the classic scare tactic of sticking a cicada shell on an unsuspecting sibling or relative, eliciting a moment of comical panic at the thought of a giant bug invasion.
The chirps themselves aren’t random noise; they are a complex form of communication. The cicada song is a language, with different pitches and volumes conveying a range of messages, from warnings of danger to the alluring calls of mating rituals. While I haven’t quite cracked the code to translate the nuances of their sonic vocabulary, the intensity and drama of their chorus always makes me think of a Tennessee Williams play, maybe something like Cat On A Hot Tin Roof. I picture a scene set on a wide veranda, the air thick with heat, characters languidly fanning themselves, sipping iced lemonade, and engaging in intense family drama, all underscored by the ever-present, almost maddening, cicada song.
One of the most striking things about cicadas, especially in my region, is their size. Compared to many other insects we encounter, they seem almost prehistoric in scale. We have June Bugs (decidedly not a favorite) and Praying Mantises (absolute marvels!), but the cicada has a certain heft, a robust presence that makes it stand out. My father, in a moment of whimsical curiosity, once caught a cicada and gently tied a string to it. He then let it fly, creating a sort of living, buzzing helicopter circling him – just a man taking his cicada for a walk, or rather, a spin. (The cicada, I should add, was released afterward, completely unharmed, though perhaps a tad disoriented.)
It turns out my father and I are far from alone in our fascination with cicadas. The internet is, of course, a testament to niche interests, and there’s an entire website, Cicada Mania, dedicated to all things cicada. Delving into cultural history, you discover that ancient Chinese cultures revered the cicada as a symbol of rebirth and transformation. And in other cultures, they are even considered a culinary delicacy. As for me, I’ll continue to appreciate my cicadas in a more Tennessee Williams-esque fashion: enjoyed from the porch, with a tall glass of ice-cold lemonade in hand – no “no-neck monsters” involved – just the company of the summer air and the endless, iconic cicada song.
