Then each one of us, […] will move back out on the pitch-black porch and let the body heat of the day leech from the house and our own bodies out onto the night, its billion singers—tree frogs, cicadas, the deathless crickets, the high whine of bats–” Renyolds Price, Outdoor on the Porch
This bean has recently fallen under the spell of cicada music. As the day’s last light falls, she wanders from Grandma’s porch into the front yard to explore the emerging sights and sounds of twilight… she seems most intrigued by cicadas, which the Bean Girl sometimes refers to as bicadies.
She hears their song—verging on deafening—but she doesn’t see them. Perplexed, she returns to the porch, peppering Uncle Jack and Aunt Allison with questions. What are cicadas/bicadies? Where are they? Why do they make that noise?
We dig deep to share what we remember about the insect. In the winter, they live underground. After many years, they are ready to come up and spend time in the trees. Cicadas have wings. When Uncle Jack gets technical, Bean Girl makes her way back to the yard, swatting at oak and hickory trees with sticks. She hopes to lay her eyes on a cicada.
Her precocious exploration sparks my own inquiry. What do cicadas teach us? I recall that they are a beloved symbol of Provence. They spend years underground before seeking the sunlight. 19th century poet Frédéric Mistral even granted cicadas their own motto: the sunlight makes me sing.
That light is slipping through our fingers. The evening air is heavy, but we feel autumn coolness pushing up against these last days of summer. As Bean Girl searches the yard, we settle deeper into our spots on the porch and sip the last of the rosé, engulfed in cicada song.
Inspirations
The beginning of August was gloriously cool and breezy—not Iowa State Fair weather by any stretch of the imagination. Mom’s cozy front porch is underused, so one day I welcomed her home from work with a mini porch party. It was a snap to organize this tiny gathering:
My friend Sahar is a cardamom tea connoisseur. Milky and minty with a bold cardamom profile, her morning sips are robust and comforting.
I let reading take over this summer. It’s just what I needed. Last summer I was too busy to settle in with my books, only able to squeeze in a few novels here and there. I missed the ease of summer reading and vowed that this year would be different. I have been consuming books!
Life is lush in this Mediterranean village. Located in the south of France mere miles from Spain, Catalan culture pervades Collioure. Tapas, espadrilles, sunshiny wine… People glide between French, Spanish, and Catalan. Vivacious and expressive, they draw me in.
I am sorry to say that Peter was not very well during the evening. His mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to Peter! —The Tale of Peter Rabbit, Beatrix Potter
My little patio garden is bursting. Each year, I tinker with this square space off my kitchen. I’ve learned that it’s too sunny for impatiens and that begonias thrive in the morning sun. Potted herbs always take off, and so each summer I find myself swirling ribbons of basil into gazpacho, stirring mint into lemonade, and topping my green salads with chives.
I travel a little for work and a lot for pleasure. I set out on my own, my journeys bringing me to rainy Edinburgh streets, to the salty French seaside, and to my childhood home in Iowa. Each trip enriches me. I fill my soul with modern art, befriend fellow train passengers, and soak in the places that become part of me.