Nature Note #149: A Familiar Grind
As the dog days of summer trudge on, those of us in the world of adult responsibilities grind along too. We have jobs, appointment, and lives to lead regardless of how hot the weather and how inviting the sunshine is outside. Despite this, there is a familiar sound that punctuates the noise and grind that surrounds our everyday lives.
Even as I've grown more and more used to life here in the city, noise still finds a way to puncture through. Recently I was listening to an episode of Roman Mars's podcast, 99% Invisible where he discussed the difference between noise and sound. Noise is a sound or series of sounds that are annoying or disturbing to one's overall experience of the world, while a sound itself was the expulsion of air waves of a certain pitch and frequency that we recognize coming from a specific source, regardless of the impression it has on our experience of the surrounding world.
There is certainly no doubt that cities are noise centers. Rumbling traffic, wailing emergency vehicles, tires slapping pavement. Even as I sit in my apartment, Sabaton blaring from my computers speakers, the fan from the AC hums drone-like in the corner, while a mysterious bonking noise punctuates the otherwise hard rocking inner soundscape I'm trying to create. Occasionally the heavy footfalls of my neighbors can be heard as well.
But what does this have to do with a nature blog? What kind of natural grind could I be talking about? Well, I came up with this topic after driving around the city with my windows down. I rarely use AC in the car in the summer except when I'm on the highway and when those windows are down, I experience little snapshots of the world around me as I drive past. Just yesterday, I saw a young couple photographing their toddler in a folding chair in front of the "Before I Die..." chalk wall near the robot mural along West Fayette Street and at a stoplight at the Wegman's near Route 5, I saw a pair of Mourning Doves (Zenaida macroura) foraging for grit in a median. These little observations provide me with a curious glimpse into a few seconds of another life and leave me wondering what those experiencing it will do after I leave.
That being said, I have noticed something else whilst driving. A particular grinding noise that hums from the treetops. In an earlier post on this blog, I wrote about "Bugs from the Sun" and described their rich, thrumming noise that decorates the trees every humid summer. I am of course, referring to the cicada (Cicadidae).
Cicadas are a familiar summer insect that everyone hears, but don't usually get the chance to see. The adults are fairly large, bulky insects with clear wings, large bulging eyes, and strong legs used to grip tightly to tree branches. The one species that most people think of when they hear the name is the 17 Year or Periodical Cicada (Magicicada septendecim) that emerges in large swarms during certain years. The last big one that heard about was supposed to have happened in 2013 and was to cover most of New Jersey, but instead, barely any bugs made an appearance. When they do emerge en masse, swarms of these bugs cover sidewalks, trees, and parks with both thrumming adults creepily wailing in the trees above, while their cracked trunk-worshiping exoskeletons hang vacant on the bark below.
When I spent my summer's leading children around farm camp in Massachusetts, you could always tell it was the middle of season by the sudden sound of the Dog Day Cicadas (Tibicen canicularis) electrical whine draining from the foliage above your head. As I progressed in my career in environmental education, I have since found out that there are 12 species of cicada found in the eastern United States and after looking at the four states I've taught and worked in I found that Massachusetts had the fewest with 3 species, while New Jersey had the highest with 8 species. Pennsylvania and New York are in the middle with 4 and 5 species respectively.
So as I sit here, typing up my thoughts on cicadas, my first summer in Syracuse, and days gone by, I'm reminded by the calendar that I'll be returning to the grind tomorrow morning. The noises of the office will replace the rhythmic thrum of the Linne's Cicadas (Neotibicen linnei) in the trees near my apartment window, but when I do leave tomorrow evening, I will be returning home to a welcome change. I'll be able to share the sounds of the sun bugs and groan of the city with my love, Alison as well.
Even as I've grown more and more used to life here in the city, noise still finds a way to puncture through. Recently I was listening to an episode of Roman Mars's podcast, 99% Invisible where he discussed the difference between noise and sound. Noise is a sound or series of sounds that are annoying or disturbing to one's overall experience of the world, while a sound itself was the expulsion of air waves of a certain pitch and frequency that we recognize coming from a specific source, regardless of the impression it has on our experience of the surrounding world.
There is certainly no doubt that cities are noise centers. Rumbling traffic, wailing emergency vehicles, tires slapping pavement. Even as I sit in my apartment, Sabaton blaring from my computers speakers, the fan from the AC hums drone-like in the corner, while a mysterious bonking noise punctuates the otherwise hard rocking inner soundscape I'm trying to create. Occasionally the heavy footfalls of my neighbors can be heard as well.
But what does this have to do with a nature blog? What kind of natural grind could I be talking about? Well, I came up with this topic after driving around the city with my windows down. I rarely use AC in the car in the summer except when I'm on the highway and when those windows are down, I experience little snapshots of the world around me as I drive past. Just yesterday, I saw a young couple photographing their toddler in a folding chair in front of the "Before I Die..." chalk wall near the robot mural along West Fayette Street and at a stoplight at the Wegman's near Route 5, I saw a pair of Mourning Doves (Zenaida macroura) foraging for grit in a median. These little observations provide me with a curious glimpse into a few seconds of another life and leave me wondering what those experiencing it will do after I leave.
That being said, I have noticed something else whilst driving. A particular grinding noise that hums from the treetops. In an earlier post on this blog, I wrote about "Bugs from the Sun" and described their rich, thrumming noise that decorates the trees every humid summer. I am of course, referring to the cicada (Cicadidae).
Cicadas are a familiar summer insect that everyone hears, but don't usually get the chance to see. The adults are fairly large, bulky insects with clear wings, large bulging eyes, and strong legs used to grip tightly to tree branches. The one species that most people think of when they hear the name is the 17 Year or Periodical Cicada (Magicicada septendecim) that emerges in large swarms during certain years. The last big one that heard about was supposed to have happened in 2013 and was to cover most of New Jersey, but instead, barely any bugs made an appearance. When they do emerge en masse, swarms of these bugs cover sidewalks, trees, and parks with both thrumming adults creepily wailing in the trees above, while their cracked trunk-worshiping exoskeletons hang vacant on the bark below.
When I spent my summer's leading children around farm camp in Massachusetts, you could always tell it was the middle of season by the sudden sound of the Dog Day Cicadas (Tibicen canicularis) electrical whine draining from the foliage above your head. As I progressed in my career in environmental education, I have since found out that there are 12 species of cicada found in the eastern United States and after looking at the four states I've taught and worked in I found that Massachusetts had the fewest with 3 species, while New Jersey had the highest with 8 species. Pennsylvania and New York are in the middle with 4 and 5 species respectively.
So as I sit here, typing up my thoughts on cicadas, my first summer in Syracuse, and days gone by, I'm reminded by the calendar that I'll be returning to the grind tomorrow morning. The noises of the office will replace the rhythmic thrum of the Linne's Cicadas (Neotibicen linnei) in the trees near my apartment window, but when I do leave tomorrow evening, I will be returning home to a welcome change. I'll be able to share the sounds of the sun bugs and groan of the city with my love, Alison as well.
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