Monday, August 23, 2010

Flying Crickets

Coming to Texas gave me a whole new understanding of what some of the plagues in the Old Testament could have looked like. I came to Texas from the dry, beautiful, bug-free world of Colorado, and entered into a plague driven town of Waco. You probably think I’m crazy, but anyone who has lived in Waco will vouch to the fact that there are 2 seasonal plagues a year.

1. The Birds. I personally believe Alford Hitchcock must have spent some time in Waco to get his inspiration to his movie “The Birds.” No, really. They are everywhere.

They cover roofs so thickly, you think the roof is supposed to be black. They cover trees so deeply, that if you accidentally park under one you have to run to your car, dodging bullets as they rain down from above. The thing with birds is, at least they stay outside and don’t come in. The same can’t be said about the second….

2. The Crickets. Wait, let me clarify… the flying crickets. This second plague sweeps into Waco, and the sidewalks turn black and crunchy. You think I’m kidding, but I have never in my life seen anything like it. I was told that the first year at Baylor was one of the worst “cricket seasons” they had ever had, but still.

These weren't the cute little Disney, Jiminy Cricket, crickets. These were big black jumping/flying crickets that looked more like cockroaches than anything else. The problem was that not only was every step you took outside "crunch", you weren’t safe inside. The crickets would come flying out of vents, through windows, and, at times, it felt like they were coming out of faucets even. For someone who can tolerate bugs, even this was far beyond my threshold.

So why this reminiscing of plagues, crickets, and the heeby geebies?

The other night I was sitting on my bed, typing away on my computer when suddenly something went flying across my room. Ziggy, my dog, immediately perked his ears up, jumped off the bed, and went galivanting to find out what happened. I leaned over the bed and watched with Ziggy as a cricket scurried under the nightstand.

Apparently a cricket (named Fred) had decided to come flying into my room through a vent. I cant blame him for trying to get out of the heat, but really, of all vents to go into it had to be the one into my room?

As I watched Fred disappear under the furniture, I figured "good… out of sight, out of mind." Ziggy and I just looked at one another with no desire to go after Fred, and I headed to bed. In the back of my mind I thought… how often do I watch things fly into my life, and I choose to take no notice of it? I just hope it will disappear and never come back.

The next morning I woke up with no memory of the events from the night before and went through my morning routine of getting ready. At one point I stopped because I thought I heard something in my closet. Strange… "Ziggy, is that you?" I looked over and he was passed out on my bed. Nope, not Ziggy. Did I hear that right? I stopped, listened real carefully, and there it went again. Rustling from a corner of my closet. Oh great. I wanted to ignore it and deal with it later, but I just couldn’t let it go.

The thoughts from the night before had started to fester…. What happens when you let those things fly into your life and don’t deal with them?

They grow and multiply, and before you know it, you are walking through a plague of crickets that make it impossible to even take a step without being reminded by the crunch of their presence in your life.

I don’t want that. I don’t want to have to constantly be reminded by the crunches in my life that I was negligent early on. I want to be on the lookout, and not be laissez-faire when I do see a cricket.

Needless to say, Fred met his end… but not without first making me think.

1 comment:

  1. I came across your post looking up crickets for a lucky charms contest - I graduated from Baylor in 1976 - met my husband there - we are both from California and you are right! Major cricket action (or big crunchy bug action anyway) in Texas! Enjoyed your blog! What a coincidence?