Small, tender trees near us are sporting costumes of fine white mesh, secured around the trunk. They look like not-very-scary-sized alien life forms. In fact, the netting is to protect them from nearly-alien life forms. The 17-year cicadas called Brood X are beginning to emerge. They’re pretty benign as invaders go, but can be tough on little trees. Their survival strategy is predator satiety, which means there are so many cicadas that predators can feast till they’re stuffed, and there will still be cicadas left to perpetuate the species. The dog and I made contact with a number of cicadas this week. So far, they’ve been singletons and sluggish. Presumably they’re standing around waiting for their exoskeletons to harden, as pretty much the first thing cicadas do when they emerge is molt. We’ve seen their cast-off shells, too. Brood X is interesting. And loud.
To avoid contact with another walker this week, the dog and I moved off the path and into the woods by Thurston Pond. CoVid guidelines call for six feet of clearance, and mutual cooperation to make that happen has become habit. The other walker, whom we see often, smiled and waved us back. “I think we’re all safe now,” she said. “I forgot,” I responded. “Thank God for vaccines.” As we went our separate ways, she and I were both smiling. Just think, we can make contact again.
My husband came home from an afternoon dog walk a couple days later, and he was excited. “You’ll never guess what happened,” he said. “I was looking at the books in the Little Free Library on Rumsey, and a woman approached me. She didn’t stop six feet away. She walked right up to normal distance and started talking about the books in the Little Free Library. We had a conversation. It was great. Just like before the pandemic.” Just like Midwest normal.
Wednesday, I put on my mask and went to a store I hadn’t visited since before the pandemic. It’s a small specialty shop. I’ve enjoyed it for decades and have a warm relationship with the talented, personable proprietor and staff. All of whom have been vaccinated, so no masks necessary. Hurray! It was lovely to see that everyone’s all right and the place is still prospering, and it was lovely just to chat. It’s so nice to go places again.
Yesterday, I saw my optometrist. Paul has been my optometrist since I was a student, which is a long time. Paul’s wife Georgia works with him. They’re easy to spend time with and enjoy what they do. A while back, they told me they’ve decided what they want to do in their retirement: what they’re doing now. They’d tried practicing retirement on their days off and had been hard pressed to come up with activities. They’d done various things, but work was better. And work is getting to be more like it used to be, now that CoVid rules are being relaxed and lifted.
We got together for wine and cheese with a group of neighbors, this week. In Anne and Todd’s living room! We’d been planning this for months, the date to coincide with when we’d all reached full immunity after our vaccinations. Months before that, Todd had purchased a very special bottle of wine, to save until there should be cause for celebration. We all showed up with bells on, as the saying goes. We spoke of this and that. Would there be a court picnic this Memorial Day? No, not everyone is vaccinated yet. What was it like to cross the Atlantic on an ocean liner, back when liners plied the seas? What has everyone heard about returning to campus? How was the solo hiking trip through the Manistee National Forest? Above all, isn’t it wonderful to do wine and cheese again, the way we used to? We’ve seen and spoken with each other by happenstance over the span of the pandemic—we’re neighbors, after all—but it’s not the same as a planned get-together, with anticipation, the preparation of food for each other’s enjoyment, and being in the same space together.
My sisters and I are planning a trip to Beaver Island later this summer. We’ll spend three days together. That hasn’t happened since we were children. We’ll hike and spend time in the water and looking at the water. We’ll cook and eat together. We’ll laugh until our muscles are sore. But, mostly, we’ll just be together. The anticipation is great, and the reality will be even better. We can hardly wait. We are eager for contact.
28 May 2021
Looking forward to hearing about your Beaver Island experiences! Has the mesh worked to keep the trees safe from the cicadas?