It's that time of year when the air conditioners get turned off and windows are thrown open. Stale air is replaced by fresh; and the monotonous hum of the circulating fan is replaced by a variety of outdoor sounds.
The evening orchestra of frogs and insects is what I notice most. Foremost in that orchestra is the cricket section. The varying octaves of chirping that rise and fall in synchronized volume can send me into a deep sleep faster than a handful of Sominex.
Yet, let a single cricket find its way into my house and the chirping is the equivalent of Chinese water torture.
A single cricket can have me stalking around the house at bedtime like an apprentice Crocodile Hunter. I will crawl under beds, move furniture, and burrow my way through the questionable stuff that piles up in the corners of closets in my search for the offending insect.
And when, I want to know, did crickets learn how to throw their voice (or chirp)? There is no other explanation. I can track the chirp to a shadowy corner, upside down waste basket poised for a certain capture, only to find nothing but dust bunnies. Even while standing there like a confused trash collector, I can hear the chirping SO clearly. The little devil HAS to be right in front of me.
The outcome is predictable. I will fling the waste basket away in surrender, bury my head beneath a pillow - and wonder where I left the Sominex.
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