We were driving out Seventeenth Street, the Debutante and I, and since it was an extraordinarily beautiful summer afternoon, we had the Volvo's moonroof open.
"Hear that squeak?" asked the Deb.
"Of course not." Many of the little squeaks and rattles that trouble her escape my notice these days. It's been that way since last Christmas Day, when I went outside to photgraph the kids and grandkids shooting skeet. Foolishly, I wore no ear protection -- never gave it a thought -- and when I went back inside I realized I had lost a significant part of my hearing.
Anyhow, I couldn't hear the squeak, and when I closed the moonroof as we approached a dusty curb construction job on Rising Sun Lane, neither could the Deb.
"Cicadas," she said. "I'll bet it was cicadas."
"Better cicadas than another costly visit to the shop," I said.
It's that time of the year. The cicadas are out -- and the cicada killers, too.
The killers are large, dangerous looking winged creatures that are easily mistaken --at least around our place -- for killer bees. They swarm at ankle level in the grassy flood plain in front of C and J's quaint old house overlooking the Red Clay Creek.
This morning I found one on the screen door to our condo balcony. That's getting a little close to home. I flipped a finger nail against the screen's interior and sent him on his way.
Cicadas I can tolerate -- even enjoy, so long as they don't overdo the racket. Cicada killers are another matter. If they have any redeeming grace, I am unaware of it. Let them stay in the country, or the burbs if they insist. Trolley Square is at the wrong end of the line for them.
