January 18, 2026

The Cicadas of Summer

Perhaps it was because I grew up on the outskirts of a small North Texas suburb, surrounded by hundreds of acres of cotton fields, but every Summer, we experienced an onslaught of Cicadas which we mistakenly referred to as Locusts. Turns out the two aren’t at all related — they’re from totally different entomological orders.

They don’t even have many characteristics in common. While Cicadas live the majority of their lives underground (13 to 17 years) and emerge in large numbers, Locusts have a short lifespan of only a few weeks to a few months. Locusts travel in swarms and kill crops. Cicadas are loners who feed on tree roots when they’re underground and tree sap when they’re up here with us.

The good news for Cicadas is that when they emerge into our world, it’s to have sex. The bad news is it’s one of the last things they’ll ever do since they only live above ground a month or so, and part of that venture is extremely painful. Due to their rapid above-ground growth, Cicadas outgrow their hard exoskeleton at least twice while hanging out in our world.

The other thing about Cicadas is that they have no defense. They don’t sting. They don’t bite. And they don’t spray stinky juice on their predators. Their only hope of evading predators and getting some sex while they’re up here is that the overwhelming population of their herd lowers the odds of individuals being eaten. I mean, how many plates of Cicada Tartar could your average critter eat before they go off looking for some vegetables or desert?

Birds and small rodents eat Cicadas but it’s likely their most fearsome predator is adolescent boys. My friend, Mike, who lived down the street, had a Mulberry tree in his front yard, mostly because his dad was too lazy to chop it down. Mulberries are useless trees that drop a lot of nasty stuff on your car if you park under them.

They also get that nasty stuff on your blue jeans if you climb in them, but Mulberries have limbs that branch out near the ground and are perfect for a couple boys from Garland to spend summer days climbing. Even more important, Mulberries are a favorite dining spot for those defenseless Cicadas every Summer.

Sometime in June, a bazillion Cicadas would emerge from the cotton field behind my house. Their “singing” would wake you up at night — we didn’t have air conditioning in those days and slept with the windows open. Actually, their singing would sound like a severe case of Tinitis and if it was loud enough to wake an exhausted eight-year-old boy, imagine what it did to middle-aged parents with anxiety issues.

During Cicada season, Mike and I would climb that nasty Mulberry tree almost every day and scour it for Cicada shells. Some would be broken but some would be almost completely intact. Can you imagine what it would be like to be sitting at the dinner table and have your whole face crack open? Then your chest? Then, all the way down to your feet?

I don’t believe Cicadas are sentient beings like you and I but there has to be pain involved with that process, and it happens at least twice in short order. So, the next time you stub your toe and let off a string of profanities that would make Popeye blush, just be thankful you’re not a Cicada.

And the next time some eco-bigot starts whining about how bad Humans are for the planet, tell ‘em to get over their self-hatred and take a look at Cicadas, and Locusts, and every other insect. They don’t do a darn thing for the planet but consume its resources and crap them back out wherever they feel like it.

At least Cicadas provide entertainment for adolescent boys who would otherwise be tossing water balloons out of that Mulberry tree at passing cars.

Let’s talk. I’d really like to hear what you have to say, and it might even give me something to write about. Email me at guy@lawsoncomm.com.
I’ll buy you coffee and we can compare notes. I promise not to steal your ideas without permission.