The Sound of the Cicadas

The Sound of the Cicadas

Waking up to the bustling of my mother preparing ‘’the picnic’’ for a day at the cottage is one of my most precious memories growing up.

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My brother and I grew up with an extension to our family of four: mom and her slightly older sister having been like two peas in a pod their whole life, it was only logical and natural for the two families to mingle and do so much together. Although different in so many ways, the two brother-in-laws were closer than brothers could ever be. There never was any open disagreement between them, and my uncle being such a wise man could always find a way to connect with dad in difficult times when everyone else would give up. Best friends until the very end, they are now side by side at the columbarium, each in their pigeon box, patiently waiting for the love of their life to join them. I grew up with three additional ‘’brothers’’: the oldest was soon on the outside, preceding us in the normal flow of life, graduating from university way before I could spell it and showing up at the house with his brand new Renault 5. The middle boy was the same age as my brother and the two of them could write a book about their many complex adventures: playing strategy board games for hours, butterfly hunting afternoons not always ending so safely, and bike excursions requiring advanced planning, to only name a few of the plans those two brains could come up with. The youngest was my age and soon displayed as much patience as his father, tolerating the bossy me and bending to my many girlish play expectations. These three cousins are now righteous grown men traveling the same path my brother and I are on, caring for their mother afflicted with Alzheimer’s.

The cottage was not ours. It belonged to my aunt and uncle. We visited several times during the summer and cross-country skied over during winter. Located in Sainte-Catherine-de-la-Jacques-Cartier, this log cabin on stilts, bordering a small lake filled with trout, was separated from the main drag by a dirt road and a gully, which became inaccessible by car during winter. These ski adventures in winter were just as enjoyable as our summer days visiting aunt Paulette, uncle Claude and the cousins.

I can close my eyes and vividly remember the days filled with simple pleasures spent in this secluded haven. The fire was comforting in winter, as we would eat the lunch my mother had packed for us: a sandwich and a thermos of warm soup. With rosy cheeks and toes barely thawed out, the children would run back outside to explore the surroundings and try to find animal footprints in the fresh snow, while the adults would stay inside and chat, enjoying the warmth of the fire burning.

In the summer, we spent the afternoons by the lake capturing tadpoles and frogs, avoiding snakes (or in my case running away from boys chasing me with snakes), or ‘’boating’’ in the inflatable raft. Maybe once or twice a summer, dad and uncle Claude would actually leave the comfort of their chair on the veranda of the cottage to come join us at ‘’the beach’’ for a dip. I loved when my very tall uncle carried me on his shoulders, thus giving me a whole new perspective on life from up above, or hold me when I tried to walk on the unsteady split-rail cedar fence. 

The tension would rise as the day went by and the older boys levelled the golf croquet ‘’field’’ for the traditional game after supper. They would rake the sandy space with care and fend the playing field from people walking through until the game took place.

How I loved the quietness of this cozy place surrounded by the forest, where occasionally, a woodpecker would break the silence, pounding at a tree I would try to locate to see the culprit in action. Otherwise, the only sounds breaking the stillness were the children’s laughter as they played in the water, the wooden mallets striking the balls and followed with joyful cheers or the crickets waking up at dusk.

But there was more… I never realized at the time that the one sound of nature that would have the power to bring me back to all those memories and make me long for the days of my childhood innocence is the sound of the cicadas. This long and increasingly powerful crescendo heard on warm summer days, reminding us that summer will soon come to an end. 

A busy life, my mind racing a hundred miles an hour, making me unable to stop and appreciate the present moment. Even if the present is not quite what I wish it was. Running away from the present, longing for a past that no longer is or could never be, and worrying about what the future holds. The power this harmless insect has on my subconscious with its lament, bringing me to revisit the past with such intensity. A past I can’t change. A past I can’t go back to. A past I must draw lessons from to fuel the energy to better my future.

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