CRICKETS
Published in
4 min readJul 28, 2024
“Peeps,” the oldest granddaughter said, “teach me how to fish at your house tomorrow.”
“Me too, me too,” the youngest cried, not wanting to be left out. Now, managing two little ones with cane poles and sharp hooks is no easy task. But hey, how could this grandfather turn down those sweet requests?
The grandsons were taught to fish with relative ease. Old Peeps got the hooks baited, tossed their lines in the water, and within ten seconds, the boys abandoned the project in pursuit of something else. To say the boys have the attention span of a gnat would be giving each too much credit. Luckily, an hour later, both came back for another try. Finally, at one point or another, they got the hang of it and started becoming Huck Finns. All this wasn’t without some effort on my part, though.
“The crickets will bite me,” the second oldest grandson said during his learning tenure. He looked into the cricket cage as if it was full of snakes.
“Naw, son,” I explained, “crickets don’t bite; they just feel a little prickly.”
“Here, Brother, let me show you,” his younger brother and the quickest learner suggested. “See,” he said, pulling a cricket out of the cage, “It’s easy. I’m not scared of them,” he challenged.
“Give it a try, Son,” Peeps coached. “You’ll get the hang of it.” He made several attempts, but each time a cricket touched him, his hand jerked back as if stung by a yellow jacket.
“Alright,” I thought, “this silliness has gone on long enough. It’s time to teach like my father the old Marine.” As his hand eased into the cage for another try Peeps grabbed ahold. Now, this boy has some moves and powerful lungs. Everyone on the lake came running to their docks, afraid someone had just tangled with a ten-foot alligator. Even after my grandson dragged me off the dock into the water, this grandfather refused to let go. After we drank gallons of lake water, victory was achieved. He’d decided that drowning was much scarier than touching a bug.
“Move those crickets out of the sun,” Better Half said a few minutes before the girls arrived.
“Why,” I asked. “They’re about to become fish food.”
“Have you no compassion?” she cried while giving me an odd female look. “Here, let me get them some water…”
At the end of the day, the crickets were still sitting in the shade of our porch. The girls, in typical flighty fashion, decided swimming would be more fun. After the thundering herd departed, I picked up the cricket cage, intending to do the humane thing: dump them in the water and feed the fish.
“Where are you going with those?” Better Half asked. Her face was getting that funny look again.
“You are not!” she scolded me after I revealed my intentions. Mr. So and So at the store said, if I put half an orange in the cage, they’ll live a long time.”
“Whatever,” I answered, shrugging my shoulders. Some battles aren’t worth having. Especially when Mr. So and So at the store knows better. The last time I’d dumped leftover crickets in the yard, trying to do my part for the environment, the little buggers homesteaded in my garage. Took me all summer to get them out.
“I like the sound they make,” she said, peering at the bugs as if deciding on names.
A week later, while looking at her pets, she bragged, “See,” she said, “each one is still alive. Keeping a fresh-cut orange and water does the trick.”
“Just how long are you planning on keeping those things?” I asked. I’d long ago gotten used to her eccentricities.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she replied. “They just remind me of my childhood.” Sometimes it is just better to say, “Yes, dear,” and move on. This husband also knows that nature can be unkind. Three days later, her blood-curdling scream brought me running as if the Russians had just attacked. The wretched look of horror on her face said it all.
Who knew that two salamanders could eat a hundred crickets in one sitting? There was nothing left except a few spare legs.
