The dog days of summer are a bounty for the senses. We see the lemon-yellow of whorled sunflower blooms, taste the ripe flavor of a homegrown tomato, smell the spicy sweetness of bee balm flowers, feel the heat of the day and the cool of the evening. Yet the most quintessential sensation of these end-of-summer days is hearing the overwhelming cacophony of cicada songs around the Lake County Forest Preserves in northern Illinois.
Earlier this week, my husband came in from the yard with a mosquito on his forehead. Had it been summer, that little tag-along would never have made it so far—but not in December. In the colder months, critters that are commonplace during the Midwestern summer are often the farthest things from our minds. It always amazes me when the weather has been cold for an extended period, then, at the first sign of warmth, insects seem to magically reappear. Where have they been hiding? How did they survive the frigid air that makes me shiver in my sweater when I’m outdoors longer than a few minutes?