Referencing the plague of locusts whenever two or more bugs are gathered in the same place.
Two weeks ago, I flew to Dallas. When I left Nashville, our neighborhood was quiet. It was so peaceful that you could hear a bird sneeze. (Which is adorable by the way.) But when I returned a mere 48 hours later, something was different. Even with all the windows in my car rolled up, lest I inhale more pollen, I could hear a buzzing. Like tiny chainsaws grinding away at phonebooks that keep inexplicably getting delivered to my house, there was a loud noise that permeated our entire neighborhood.
What was it?
The return of the cicadas.
Gone for the last 13 years, this collection of bugs has returned to Nashville in greater numbers than even the amount of banjos that are swarming the city right now thanks in part to Mumford & Sons.
They're black, crunchy like old Sun Chip bags and constantly under foot. There are thousands in my backyard, my driveway, and the side of my house. As I type this, one is literally clinging to the windshield wiper as we drive to Atlanta like DeNiro in the movie Cape Fear. The persistence this bug has shown in holding on to that wiper blade in the middle of a torrential rain at 70MPH is both inspiring and terrifying.
Growing up in Massachusetts, I was unfamiliar with the "return of the cicadas," but people in Nashville talked about their arrival like DC Talk was finally getting back together. "Oh yeah, they should be here this week. Remember last time? Definitely going to be here Thursday." They only hatch every 13 years, but we knew down to the day when they would come back. (I know, I know, don't call it a comeback, they've been here for years.)
And as we prepared for their return, more than one friend said to me, "Do you think this is like the plague of locusts in the Old Testament?" In response, my first answer is always, "Well, the locusts ate a lot of crops, so it really depends on if you're talking about the larval stage or the juvenile stage of the cicada. A juvenile cicada won't eat solid foods but instead consists on a steady diet of fluid from a living deciduous tree." My second answer is, well I don't usually get to tell them a second answer because they've already walked away in boredom at that point.
But I realized that whenever I see two or more bugs gathered in the same place, I think, "Old Testament swarm!" And it's not just bugs that I find myself doing that with. The other day, my five year old McRae came home with a string of frog eggs stuck to her shorts. (Don't ask, it was a "dad adventure" and those usually end with the kids pretty filthy.)
When my wife said, "Hey, quick question. Is McRae covered in frog eggs right now?" I thought, "Old Testament swarm!"
There is a chance I'm the only one who has done this and I pray that I'll never have cause to say, "Wow, this is as many boils as in the plague of boils."
But maybe I'm not alone. Have you ever seen a large collection of bugs and thought, "This is so OT?"
