Crickets


I grew up in Rhode Island where the summers were so short you could miss it if you blinked. But those short summers were absolutely stifling, given that nobody in New England had air conditioning at the time.


I had two windows in my bedroom and always slept with both of them open in the summer. In one of them sat an oversized clunky fan from, what must have been, the 1970s. This was somehow supposed to magically suck cold air in from the muggy hotness outside. I never understood that concept. All it ever did was bring in warm air and blow it around the room. Was I doing it wrong?


And as that big ol’ dinosaur whirred, clicked and rattled in one window, crickets chirped through the other. That was the sound of my summer nights as a kid. It’s quite a nice memory, actually.



Alas, I live in Florida now — and I hate it. I hate the 9 months of suffocating, gross humidity and the constant drone of air conditioning. It’s too hot here to sleep with the windows open, so I don’t get to hear crickets anymore. Alas, I live in Florida now — and I hate it. I hate the 9 months of suffocating, gross humidity and the constant drone of air conditioning. It’s too hot here to sleep with the windows open, so I don’t get to hear crickets anymore.


Well… Not the buggy kind, anyway.


The only crickets I hear now are the occasional, figurative kind. The kind that silently chirp and disappear after we give them the price of a doll they've inquired about.




Did I just give a soliloquy ending in snark? Perhaps. But why can’t those crickets just say, “Okay, thank you”? 🤔😁



— Cyndi




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