Back-to-School Crickets

Can you relate to this experience of a sound bringing you back in time?

The sound of these nighttime musicians immediately transports me back in time. When I was little, I dubbed them the “back-to-school crickets.” They became a visceral reminder of summer’s end.

My mother told me they were “katydids.” She chuckled, “When your Aunt Harriet and I were little, we used to go back and forth saying, ‘katy did’ and ‘katy didn’t’”, mimicking the sound of the nighttime critters.

Maybe you can hear that in the musical conversation of the insects, too.

Similar to the beautiful sight of fireflies, the beautiful sound of katydids reminds me of my childhood and makes me nostalgic. I have vivid memories of both insects!

We caught fireflies in a jar and were mesmerized how they lit up a dark room, before releasing them back to the night. The sight of fireflies in the evening meant it was time to say goodnight to the neighborhood kids and time to take a bath and enjoy my nighttime routine. I was conflicted. Oh, how the fun of playing SPUD with my three siblings, my best friend (still!) Jeriann, and my Bernardsville neighborhood friends rivaled the comfort of bedtime stories and special time with my mom before being tucked in by her unconditionally loving hands.

Each summer, we spent weekends at our trailer at Trails End in Shahola Falls in the Poconos. We usually finished the summer with a 2-week vacation there. As we left at dusk, the station wagon did not have air conditioning, so we’d open all the windows, and my sister Debbie’s and my long hair would fly everywhere, sometimes standing straight up! I could hear the katydids out the window as we got closer to home.

Once we arrived home, us four kids would be sleeping, as we always arrived home late. My father liked to squeeze in as much wholesome family time in the Poconos, always leaving as late as possible – usually after dinner and a stop for soft ice-cream in our pajamas at Walter’s General Store on Rt.6. Now as I’ve raised my own children, I understand why we always left so late. My parents carried me inside once we got home, and the sound of the katydids was louder and gently woke me up – announcing to me that the start of school was just around the corner.

I’m going through a lot of “firsts” without my mother. Each is a painful reminder of her absence. While it’s been 25 years since I earned my Doctorate and experienced that “back to school” feeling in August myself, John and I have had a child going to school since 2005. And my mother has always been a part of that. When they were little, that often included waiting for the Kindergarten bus. In recent years, that included family backyard dinner sendoffs before each child left the family “nest” for college.

As I listened to the “back-to-school crickets” last night, I felt excitement for my son as he is transferring to a new college, for my daughter beginning graduate school, and for my other daughter as she receives coveted interview invitations subsequent to her medical school applications. I want to share it all with my mom. And she’s not here. She’s not here in the physical world as I would selfishly like her to be.

As I listened to the katydids last night, I allowed myself to feel the grief of her absence. One thing I learned through the deaths of my fiancé and father in 1994 is that the only way to heal grief is to feel grief. I also learned that feeling grief is not always gut-wrenching painful, and that it can be kissed with the tenderness and sweetness of memories.

As I opened the door and heard this sound, I first allowed myself to feel sad. Then the memories that the sound of the “back-to-school crickets” evoked came flooding in, and I felt pure gratitude. Gratefulness to have been cared for by two loving parents, grateful for my siblings Debbie, Brian, and David, and grateful for the amazing childhood and memories our parents created for us – experiences we continue to talk and laugh about.

I then stepped from the house into the dark, standing under the Big Dipper, and just allowed myself to be blanketed by this sound of nature. A sound from little insect musicians that with unfailing predictability, come together every August to form an orchestra and play a nocturnal concert for us at the end of every day after the lights go out. Nature is so predictably healing.

I miss you, Mom. And just like you told me, Debbie, Brian, and David before you passed – I feel you in nature. I’m grateful for this comfort.