It will happen any day now. Zillions of them will crawl from their dirt bungalows, dust off their wings, slick back their hair and proceed to make us miserable with their obnoxious song. Cicada’s are Gods way of shaking his “no-no, you’ve been bad” finger at us.
In the 1950s, it seemed the little critters were everywhere in our Fort Worth neighborhood. Cats loved to eat them, dogs like to crunch them, and us kids captured them for fun. Tie a kite string on their leg and fly them around like a model airplane, and then blow them up with a Black Cat firecracker. Such fun. Nothing was quite as freaky as an angry Cicada buzzing in your hand.
One summer evening as the family sat in our back yard, drinking ice tea and listening to the buggy orchestra, I put my pet Cicada, “Little Buzzy,” down the back of my mothers shirt. No one in the family knew she was such an accomplished acrobat.
The educated experts say the insects appear in seventeen-year cycles, then die off and reappear seventeen years later. Who are these experts, and when did they start keeping track of the bugs appearances? What if a few miss the die-off, or stay too long in their hidey hole and mess up the entire show? That may explain why we heard them every summer in the 1950s; confused Cicada’s.
I’m looking forward to sitting on my patio, a nice tumbler of Irish whiskey in my paw, and listening to the sounds of my childhood.
I wrote this story a few years ago and decided to bring it back for a re-visit. Given todays headlines with the hipster crowd in Seattle and Portland grabbing our attention. I think a good recount of how ridiculous we can be about out coffee.
A while back, my wife and I visited the new and improved Fort Worth landmark, Sundance Square. Beautiful place, well planned, and functional architecture. Good job, Bass boys. After a few loops, we got a hankering for a cup of coffee and maybe a pastry.
We found a coffee house cafe with little sidewalk tables. Not our style, so we went inside.
Passing through the door, I caught the name on the storefront window, “The Door to Perception.” The famous beat author Aldous Huxley wrote that book. He and Jack Kerouac birthed the beat generation via literature. This might be a cool place.
We queued in line at the counter. The young man in front of me smelled of Petiole oil. An odd scent for a man. Didn’t mix well with my Old Spice. Hippie chick perfume is what we called it back in the day. My wife nudges me and whispers “what kind of place is this? These kids all look alike.”
Her observation was spot on. Every male in the room had a similar symmetrical haircut, facial hair, garage sale chic mismatched clothing, and skin-tight jeans. Birkenstock sandals seemed to be the shoe of choice. The girls were ditto, but without the facial hair. Stepford children they were. I knew immediately that we had stumbled into a Hipster coffee house. I told my wife to please be calm. This is no more dangerous than wading into a gob of old hippies at a Steppenwolf reunion concert. She wasn’t amused.
The Petiole boy in front of me was ordering his coffee. I caught the conversation with him and the barista. “I’ll have a Trenta in a recycled rain forest cup, free-range, green label, fair trade grown, Andean, but not from the higher region but the lower valley, harvested by virgins no older than 16, aged in a cave on the coast to a bold bean, roasted on a log fire made from non-endangered rain forest trees, lightly pressed, and kissed with a serious pour of steamed spotted Syrian goats milk, then ever so slowly, pour two Cuban sugars at the same time on opposite sides of the cup. Oh yeah, and Kale sprinklers. Don’t stir it, I need to experience the aura.”
“Ahhhh… that’s my favorite. An educated choice sir,” cooed the barista. We are stunned. What in the hell did that kid just say?
I stepped up to the counter. “Two coffees with two creams and sugars each, please,” I say. “And what region will your coffee be from, sir,” says the young barista. “How about from Columbia, you know Juan Valdez and his little burro,” asked I. “Don’t know that one, sir, don’t know a Mr. Juan Valdez,” she replied. “Got something from Mrs. Olsen or Mrs. Folgers ?” I asked. “No, sir, don’t know them either,” she said. “Got anything that comes in a vacuum-packed can?” I ask. “No, sir, our beans come in hand-sewn burlap bags from India,” she replies. “Do you have any coffee grown in the United States?” asked I. She perks up and replies, “Yes sir, grown in California, Big Sur area by the Wavy Gravy Mystical Coffee Co-op. I hear it’s harvested every third quarter when Jupiter aligns with Mars, and the moon is in the seventh house. You know, sir, this is the age of Aquarius.” “Yes, I know the song,” I say. “Is there a song, sir?” she replies.
At this point, my head was about to explode, and I needed to wrap it in duct tape to contain the splatter. My wife saved me by stepping up to the counter, addressing the barista.
“Look, Moonbeam, just give us two cups of that Gravy Wavey coffee, and you pick out the sugar and cream, deal?” “Names, not Moonbeam mam, its Hillary,” says the barista. “Of course it is, sweetheart, I should have guessed that. I suppose you have a brother named Bill too? “No mam, just a little sister, Chelsea.” My wife shot me her “get me out of here before someone dies” look. The barista sensed where this was heading and promptly pushed the coffees across the counter. I paid, and we left. We stood on the sidewalk, took a sip of the gruel, and poured it into the gutter.
On the way home, we went through the McDonalds drive-through for a red, white, and blue cup of coffee. Can’t go wrong with good old Mickey D’s. None of that Hipster crap.
“I’ll have two coffees with cream and sugar; please,” I said to the voice. “Sir, will that be a Latte, a breakfast blend, a dinner blend, a dessert blend, an anniversary blend, or an I love you blend, a save the children blend in a reusable cup or an expresso, chilled or topped with sprinkles” the voice replied. I pulled out of line, and we headed home to our old and extremely un-hip Mr. Coffee.