Year of the Locusts

Recently, I watched the movie Lucas, starring the late Corey Haim as a troubled teenager in the Chicago suburbs by the name of—you guessed it—Lucas. To most people, it's a bittersweet, coming-of-age comedy-drama. To me, it's a horror story.

In the first scene, we see Lucas fascinated by the sight of a cicada—often incorrectly referred to as a "locust"—molting. The scene is a metaphor, of course; as the insect leaves its exoskeleton behind, so will Lucas, by the end of the movie, leave his childhood behind. As if the metaphor weren't obvious enough, we have the similarity of the names: "Lucas" and "Locust." Cute, huh? It makes my flesh crawl just thinking about it.

Later, there's a scene in which Lucas and several other teenagers are riding in a convertible driven by a young, pre-tiger-blooded-and-fire-breathing-fisted Charlie Sheen. Something smacks the windshield, a girl begins screaming, Charlie loses control, and the car goes into the ditch. Lucas, who is, among other things, an amateur etymologist, explains that they have run into a swarm of "locusts," and that the insects are "harmless." (How many times have we heard those words in a horror movie, just before everything starts to go wrong?) The girl begins screaming again when she realizes that one of the insects is in her hair. I couldn't blame her. I felt like screaming, too. As a matter of fact, I think I did scream.

David Seltzer, who wrote and directed Lucas, was born in 1940 in the Chicago suburb of Highland Park, Illinois. That would make him about the same age as Lucas when the Northern Illinois Brood of Magicicada septendecim, or seventeen-year-locust, emerged in 1956. The next emergence was in 1973, my senior year of high school. My family had moved from Indiana to the Chicago suburb of La Grange, Illinois, just a few years before that. We had no idea what was coming.

Sure, we had cicadas in Indiana. Every spring they emerge from the ground in their nymph state, shed their skin, and fly off to mate, lay their eggs, and die by the end of summer. You rarely see them, but you might find an empty exoskeleton stuck to a tree trunk, and on lazy summer afternoons, you might hear the soft, soporific buzz of their mating call.

We knew all about common, garden-variety cicadas, but we knew nothing of periodic cicadas, or Magicicada. In certain parts of the country (including Northern Illinois), every thirteen or seventeen years (depending on the species), enormous broods of insects emerge at once—up to 1.5 million per acre. It's nature's way of triumphing over predators by sheer force of numbers.

Technically, Lucas was right—they are harmless. They don't bite or sting. They won't even eat your plants. However, they will seriously freak you out.

I was walking home from a friend's house late one night when I saw my first. While waiting to cross 47th Street, I noticed several exoskeletons clinging to the street light pole. When I looked closer, I saw something emerging from one of them—a strange, pale thing with beady red eyes, about the size of the end of my index finger. Like Lucas, I was fascinated.

It wasn't long before fascination turned to horror.

Within days, we couldn't go outside the house without being dive-bombed by what looked like giant, red-eyed horseflies from hell. We couldn't leave the dog out in the yard, for fear the insects would drive him crazy. We couldn't even leave the windows open, because the roar of their mating call was deafening. When my aunts came to town to attend my high school graduation, we ran out to their car with umbrellas to shield them from attack. At the graduation ceremony, there were quite a few uninvited guests buzzing around the auditorium.

Then, just as quickly as they had arrived, they began dying. By the thousands. They covered the ground. You couldn't drive down the street without running over them. You couldn't walk down the sidewalk without stepping on them. And everywhere there was this weird, sickening smell—the sweet, organic aroma of hundreds of thousands of squashed, decaying cicadas.

Not long after that, my parents moved away from Northern Illinois, and I am happy to say that I have never witnessed another emergence of Magicicada septendecim. The next appearance of the Northern Illinois brood will be in 2024. I understand that Deerfield, Illinois, will be celebrating with a "Cicadia Mania" festival. Maybe I should go. They say it's good to confront your fears.

On second thought, maybe I should try to get through Lucas without screaming first.

Magicicada septendecim

The Name Game

In an earlier post, I told you a little about my Aunt Vonna. In her later years, she worked for Lincoln National Life Insurance Company, where she began collecting unusual names. (One of her favorites was "Rollin A. Snoball.") Inspired by her, I started collecting names I came across while doing research for the tax software company where I work. Most of the following names come from court opinions, and are therefore a matter of public record. (Like everyone, I get lots of interesting names in my spam folder, but I suspect they are all made-up.)

I'm particularly fond of alliterative names: Aida Abiog, Bengt Bengtson, Beverly Bernice Bang, Benson B. Berry, Breece Bartle Bull, Buffy Bush, Brandon Buster, Curtis D. Custis, Faris Fink, George Georgeff, Geeti Ghose, Grid Glyer, Gloria Gong, Gregory Goosby, Holly Hops, Henry Hungerbeeler, Jerry DeJesus, Julie Jebe, Jerry Junker, Kendricks Kilcrease, Lonnie Lakes, Mary Midgett, Melony Mogg, Paulius Pitts, Robin Riblet, Tracey Topping, Winifred Wackman, Wickie Whalen, Willie Whipple.

Charles Dickens was a collector of odd names, and many of the names I have come across sound as if they might have come from one of his novels (or from a W.C. Fields or Marx Brothers movie): Fred Aftergut, Carolee Flygare Argyle, Muhammad Butt, Buddy Creech, Horace Crump, Whistle Currier, Welbon DeLon, Regina Dipple, Alduff Doody, Fuchon D. Drain, Remington P. Fairlamb, Bushwa Farmer, Stephen P. Fattman, Kendrix D. Feemster, Luckens Felix, Melody Fucaloro, Kevin A. Goon, Denelda Sims Goolsby, Cornish F. Hitchcock, Zellard Lemon, Worth Z. Ludwick, Veena Luthra, German Miranda, Benny Nipps, Thurman L. Phemister, Dan Pickell, Otis and Tabitha Pimpleton, Wonderlyn Lorraine Bell Pinckney, Ilya Roytburd, Sally Rudrud, Ion Semen, Roland Slugg, Agripina Smith, Marietta Squibb, Ronald Stinchcomb, Gregory Q. Teeters, Marshall Tingle, Sophie Tittle, Vicky Titsworth, Dempsie Word, Emory Zipperer.

Some names are cute: Forrest Bird, Birdie Felt, Brenda Dandy, Gigi DeVault, Misty Dewey, Haidee Joy, Constance Lovelady, Corky and Rocky Self. However, there's a fine line between cute and "what on earth were the parents thinking?": Wyn Dee Stone, Unique Parks, Uneek Lowe. (I guess Uneek's parents didn't think spelling her name in the traditional way was "unique" enough.) And it's hard to believe that two generations could make the same mistake, but a surprising number of funny names are juniors: Proctor Hug, Jr., Magellean Askew, Jr., Denver C. Snuffer, Jr., Insel V. Gaitor, Jr.

Finally, there are the odd and oddly fitting names: Philander Jenkins and Chucky Wanton are convicted criminals, while Willie Outlaw and Francis Bogus were caught cheating on their taxes. Brett Gumlaw and Brian A. Turney are, as you might guess, lawyers.

Come to think of it, because most of these names come from court opinions, quite a few of them belong to either criminals or lawyers.

I could be in big trouble.

Close Encounters of the Slippery Kind

Last week, I was talking to a co-worker who moved to Tehachapi several years ago. She told me she had recently taken a tumble on some black ice. Now, there's something you don't hear much in Southern California. I remember telling a friend about black ice shortly after we moved here, and he had no idea what I was talking about. (He happened to be African-American, and he thought I was saying "black guys"—as in "I'm afraid of black guys.")

The trouble with black ice is you can't see it. Pavement covered with black ice looks just like pavement not covered with black ice, which is why they call it "black ice." One of my most memorable experiences with it happened about thirty years ago. I was leaving a rehearsal at the Civic Theatre in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It had rained earlier in the evening, then the temperature dropped, turning paved surfaces into something akin to glass coated with Vaseline. I made it across the parking lot, but when I pulled on the handle to the car door, Newton's Third Law (you know, the one about equal and opposite reactions?) took over. The next thing I knew, I was lying on my back, under the car, looking up at the stars. At least I think there were stars. Maybe I was just seeing stars.

My last encounter with black ice was eighteen years ago, when Loretta and I were living in North Tonawanda, New York. I had been off work for several days with bronchitis. (It seems like I got bronchitis every winter when I lived back east.) I was still sick, but I was determined not to miss another day of work. I knew that my customary route along the Niagara River between North Tonawanda and Niagara Falls was often icy in winter, due to mist from the river. I had seen ice on River Road several times in the past, and had managed to navigate it without incident. Unfortunately, on this particular morning, I couldn't see the ice.

My first indication that there was going to be trouble was the sight of brake lights about a half mile ahead, weaving dizzily from one side of the road to the other. Now, I am not completely stupid. I learned to drive in the Midwest. I know that you never stomp on the brakes in winter. I did not panic. I remained calm. I ever-so-gently tapped the pedal with my toe, as if testing the water in a bathtub that might be filled with piranhas. The car immediately went into a skid.

I did not panic. I remained calm. I turned the wheel in the direction of the skid, which is what they always say is the right thing to do. It didn't work, so I tried turning the wheel in the direction opposite the skid, which is what they always say is the wrong thing to do (even though it feels like the right thing to do). It didn't matter. The car had made up its mind where it was going to go—all I could do was hang on and enjoy the ride.

After the car and I came to rest in the ditch, I climbed out into two feet of snow to inspect the damage. Even if I could have gotten out of the ditch without a tow truck, the right front tire was flat. I did not have a cell phone. (The only person I knew back then who had a cell phone was my brother-in-law, Rob. It was the approximate size and weight of a cinder block.)

All I could do was start walking and hope that I found a phone before I a) froze to death or b) died of pneumonia. Fortunately, there was a convenience store with a pay phone about a half mile up the road. I called AAA, and I called Loretta and asked her to come get me and take me home. I also called my office and told them I would not be returning to work that day.

Later that year, when Loretta was offered a job in California, it was a difficult decision for her to leave friends and family in Buffalo. It was not a difficult decision for me. There are a lot of things I miss about Buffalo—the people, the food, the culture. I do not miss the winters. In fact, I will do anything I can to avoid spending another winter in New York, Indiana, or anywhere else that has black ice. I would urge you to do the same, if you can.

Also, if you're sick, do yourself a favor and just stay home.

My Best Shot

I do a fairly good job taking pictures of things that don't move—buildings, flowers, cats, etc. However, I will be the first to tell you that I am not a good wildlife photographer. For example, here's a picture I took of a bird in our back yard last summer:

See what I mean? It looks like a fuzzy pear with a face.

In July of 2006, Loretta and I took the Prairie Home Companion cruise to Alaska. It was the vacation of a lifetime. When we weren't admiring the spectacular Alaska scenery, we were enjoying the shipboard entertainment provided by Garrison Keillor and the many talented actors, singers, and musicians from our favorite radio program. As usual, Loretta, took most of the pictures. However, at a salmon bake near Juneau, I grabbed the camera from her to take this photo of a conspicuous pile of bear scat that we nearly stepped in:

Last November, I received the following e-mail from Kristy Sholly, Chief of Interpretation at Kenai Fjords National Park:

Kenai Fjords National Park, located in Seward, Alaska, is in the process of developing exhibits for the Exit Glacier Nature Center. We are interested in using your bear scat photo for use in an exhibit about "Life In, On, and Around Exit Glacier".

Please let me know if it would be possible to have permission to use your photo.

My photo on display at a national park! How cool is that? I mean, sure, it's crap—but it's good crap! And in case, like me, you were wondering just how many pictures of bear scat could be on the Internet, Kristy added:

FYI - I chose your image out of the 1,157 images labeled as "bear scat" on Flickr!

By the way, here's a picture of the bear that produced the scat. Loretta got this shot of him cleaning out the barbecue pit after our salmon bake:

If you want to see more pictures from our trip, here's a link to the album on Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jrlogue/sets/72157602743376786/

And if you're interested in reading more about the cruise, here's a link to The Ballast, the cruise newsletter written by APHC staff members, with contributions from some of the passengers (including yours truly): http://prairiehome.publicradio.org/features/cruise/2006/ballast.shtml

The Writer Must Write

On my last birthday, Loretta gave me a beautiful bronze pen and pencil box. The lid is covered with molded pens and pencils, and the front bears the following inscription:

The writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.
- Ernest Hemingway

It isn't a particularly useful gift—after all, who uses pens or pencils these days?—but it is a gift that I will always treasure, because it reminds me of two things: why I write, and that my wife believes in me.

When I was a third-grader at Lincoln Elementary School in Warsaw, Indiana, our class took a field trip to Fort Wayne to see the Shrine Circus. The next day we were required to write an essay about the experience. The Shriners gave cash prizes for the three best essays in a state-wide contest. My essay won third prize. Somewhere, I think I have an old, yellowed, newspaper photo from the Warsaw Times Union of me wearing a fez and receiving a check from a couple of large men, also wearing fezzes. (Unfortunately, I don't have the essay. The Shriners must have kept it.)

Years later, I wrote about this experience in another essay, this time for a college English class. The topic of the essay was, "Why I Want to Be a Writer," and the point I made was that writing could be profitable. (Ha!) My final sentence was something like, "When I received that check, I knew there was something in writing." My professor wrote in the margin, "There certainly is, and I hope you find it." I did find it, largely thanks to him.

I was a biology major at Wake Forest University when I met Bynum Shaw. I knew he was not a typical college professor when, on the first day of his English 101 class, he announced that we would not be required to write a term paper. He sat behind his desk—a small, white-haired, soft-spoken man with a beguiling smile, twinkling eyes, and the stub of a cigarette held between nicotine-stained fingers—and told us that term papers were boring—boring for us to write and boring for him to read. Their only purpose was to teach us how to use the library for research. (This was long before the Internet, Kiddies.) Instead, he gave us a long list of questions that could only be answered by using every resource in the school library, from the card catalog to periodicals to the rare book room. It was fun—like a scavenger hunt—and I'm certain we learned more than we would have learned writing a term paper. One of the things we learned was that our professor was a renowned journalist and published novelist. (The answer to two of the questions was "Bynum Shaw.")

I enjoyed Shaw's introductory English class so much that, when a friend suggested we both take his short story writing class, I jumped at the opportunity. Each student in the class was required to write two short stories and read them aloud to Shaw and the class, who would critique them. My first story was based on an incident that had recently been in the news: a young woman had been brutally stabbed to death in front of several witnesses who had done nothing to help her. I told the story using a point of view that jumped from one witness to another. I thought it was gritty, visceral, and brilliant. The audience hated it.

My second story was comic in tone—a mystery parody about a "murderer" of plants. It earned me an 'A', but, more importantly, it earned laughs from Shaw and my fellow students. It also taught me two things: 1) I wanted to be a writer, and 2) if I was going to be a successful writer, I should stick to comedy. I changed my major to English and never looked back.

I am not a successful writer. I have been fortunate enough to have had my mystery scripts performed by several acting troupes across the country,  but I have stacks of rejection slips, and I have never had anything published. (About twenty years ago, a small-press magazine was going to publish one of my stories. Unfortunately, the magazine went out of business immediately after I signed the contract.) Sometimes, I find it difficult to continue to believe in myself. But Loretta continues to believe in me. And so I continue to write—for Loretta, for Bynum Shaw (bless him!), but especially for myself. Because the writer must write what he has to say, not speak it.

Fone Follies

This past week, an attendee at a New York Philharmonic concert made headlines when his iPhone began ringing—and continued to ring for several minutes—during the "most intense, most sublime, most emotional" section of Mahler's Ninth Symphony. Conductor Alan Gilbert calmly stopped the orchestra and asked the offender—who was sitting in the front row—to turn off his phone. Several times. While the phone continued to ring. When the man finally complied, Maestro Gilbert re-started the orchestra and finished the concert. All-in-all, a very civilized way of handling the situation—although I'm sure the orchestra and the rest of the audience would have preferred to see the maestro descend from the stage, grab the phone, throw it to the floor, grind it under his heel, and beat the offender savagely with his baton.

Apparently, the man's excuse was that he thought he had turned it off, but it was a new phone, and he wasn't familiar with all of its features. Well, I suppose I can understand that—especially if he is of a certain age. Most of us who were not born with a cellphone in our hand have known the embarrassment of having our phone go off in a meeting. How many of you have "butt-dialed" someone with a new phone? When Loretta got her first cellphone, I began getting strange calls, with mysterious muffled voices. Her phone would dial the house every time it bumped against something in her purse.

My father and I were still getting used to using our cellphones a couple of years ago, when Loretta and I were visiting my parents in Virginia. I was driving him to the nursing home where my mother was undergoing rehab. We had left a message with my parents' doctor, and I told my father to bring his phone along in case the doctor tried to reach him. Sure enough, about halfway to the nursing home, the phone began ringing.

"Whose phone is ringing?" my father asked.

"Yours, Dad. Answer it. It's your doctor."

"Why did I bring my phone?"

"In case your doctor called. It's him calling. Answer it."

He tried to answer it, but by then it was too late. He tried to call back, called the wrong number, realized his error, and disconnected before the call went through. At that same moment, my phone rang. When we were at a stoplight and it was safe to check my phone, I saw that I had missed a call from "Mom and Dad." Assuming it was Loretta back at the house, I called back. My father's phone began to ring.

At this point, it should have been obvious what had happened. My father had called my phone by mistake, and I was now calling his phone, thinking I was calling the house. However, at the time, I still hadn't caught on...

"It must be the doctor calling back," I said.

Dad answered it. This time he was ready.

"Hi, Babe," I said, thinking I had reached Loretta.

"It's not Babe. It's me," said Dad.

My father and I both do fairly well with our phones now, but I don't think my mother will ever get used to using a cellphone. Recently, my parents moved into a new apartment. It was several days before their phone could be hooked up, and the only way to reach them was by calling their cellphone. A conversation with my mother went something like this:

"Can you hear me, Mom?"

"Fine, dear. How are you?"

"Hold the phone up to your ear, Mom."

"Yes, we had a very nice dinner."

Cellphones. What would we do without them?

Double Dog Dare

One of my favorite holiday movies is Jean Shepherd's A Christmas Story. Although it's set in the 1940's, people of all ages find something in that movie they can relate to—a character or scene that reminds them of a person or incident from their own childhood. Unfortunately, for me it's the "double-dog dare" scene. You know which one I mean—the one where Ralphie's friend Flick gets his tongue stuck to the flagpole.

For me, that scene is almost too painful to watch. Like Shep and his alter-ego Ralph, I grew up in northern Indiana. I had friends like Flick and Schwartz. For the most part, they were good friends. However, they did not always have my best interests at heart. I was about Ralphie's age when, one cold winter day, a couple of those friends persuaded me to touch my tongue to a metal post during recess at Lincoln Elementary School.

Remember how Flick reacted when he discovered his tongue was stuck to the pole? How he became a pitiful, sniveling, whiny wimp? Well, that was me. At least my friends didn't abandon me, like Flick's did. They told the teacher, and she got the principal and the school nurse. (Cooler heads prevailed at Lincoln Elementary. It was not considered necessary to call the fire department.) Together, the three of them managed to pry me loose, although a small piece of my tongue remained stuck to the post. Like Flick, I spent the remainder of the day with a piece of gauze tied around the end of my tongue.

I bet half the boys in Indiana have gotten their tongues stuck to a cold piece of metal, and the other half put them up to it. (Girls seldom do anything so stupid.) I could end this story by cautioning all of you boys who might be reading this to never do anything on a dare. I'm sure your parents have told you this, just as my parents told me. However, as your parents, and my parents, and just about everyone else's parents have also said, "Boys will be boys." Besides, sometimes, the best way to learn is from your mistakes.

So whatever stupid thing you're thinking about doing, boys, go ahead and do it. I double-dog dare you.