See
more of the story
The first robin heralds spring; the first cicada tells you summer is halfway through its course. Perhaps you've heard that cicadas spend 17 years underground, like a rock group with a small but dedicated following, before emerging into the world to sing their droning threnody -- at which point all the hipster insects start sneering at them for going mainstream. Astonishing, you think. Also wrong.
We don't have the 17-year variety in Minnesota. We have "dog-day" or "annual" cicadas, according to a U of M website. They may spend four years or more underground. They don't synchronize their buzzing, so we're spared the terrifying sound of adolescent insects whining en masse. (The distinctive sound of the 17-year-old cicadas has been translated as "yeah, whatever.") You always hear the first one, like the voice of an old friend. You never hear the last one. One day they're gone. Geese are overhead. Pumpkins and witches in the seasonal aisle.
Speaking of which: Not saying they're connected, but the sound of the cicada usually coincides with Target putting up the Back to School stuff. Well. Target, I say this with love -- bitter, angry love, but love: Could you consider not doing something this insanely cruel? For a kid, the sight of Back to School stuff is like the news of an impending asteroid strike.
Even adults feel a trill of panic. Nevermind the sign of summer's swift passage -- it's the realization that seasonal items are now passé. Imagine it's last Friday, dear gun-jumping retailers. Hot and steamy, again. Summer is making up for June by doubling the temperatures, and hoping it all evens out, trying to make us yearn for the cool hand of fall on our fevered brow. You've made it so far without air conditioning, but you've had enough, so it's off to the appliance store. Sorry, the clerk says: We're having our Back to Autumn Furnace and Fireplace Sale. The weather will be cool, but the deals are hot! It's like that.
So: How about everyone holds off on school supply sales until the cicadas die down? Yes, I could discover that pencils are completely sold out the last week of August, and my daughter will have to do math with a lump of charcoal. Willing to risk it.
(Editor's note: This column originally ran 17 years ago and will be repeated in 2028.)
jlileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 More daily at www.startribune.com/popcrush.
