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The Write Side of 59

~ This is What Happens When You Begin to Age Out of Middle Age

The Write Side of 59

Category Archives: Confessional

I Did What She Did. Only Barefoot

26 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Asbury Park, barefoot, confessional, Lois DeSocio, The Write Side of 50

toes

I’m on my toes.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Julie’s post yesterday about growing up in Asbury in the 1960s and 1970s – the cards on beach, pinball on the boardwalk, and the Palace carousel with gold rings, was spot-on. I did the same things. Except I did them barefoot. I am a barefoot girl – have been so for as long as I can remember. To me, to have heels and toes mining the outside with nothing but skin on earth is one of the rudimentary pleasures of being human. It’s visceral. Let my skin feel the dirt, the grass – even the man-made earthy delights like pavement, concrete, wood, and floor. It feels boundless, worldly, and borders on the sensual. The blitheness of it all tickles my toes, then sings its way up. I feel real, healthy, alive; sure-footed.

When I was in my early teens, I would ride my bike to the beach in the summer (I was at least a mile farther away than most of my friends), barefoot. My mother used to worry about my exposed, pedaling feet against the street, the spokes, the chain. (Not an iota of concern for my bare head.) I could have potentially been out for 12 hours sans shoes. I’d go from beach to boards. From scorched soles to splintered toes. I would walk into snack bars, pinball arcades, (bathrooms!); ride the merry-go-round with bare legs and feet splayed out perpendicular to the horse. And then I’d ride my bike home. Sometimes in the dark. I think all of this is against the law today.

I still refuse to put sandals on when walking on a beach with hot-as-red-coals sand. “Suck it up!” I’d advise my kids, when they were younger, and would scream, then run towards the water.

“Pishaw!” I say to people who warn me, still today, that I shouldn’t walk across that parking lot that is rife with broken glass and rusty nails.

Even the gazillions of now-dead cicadas that own the outside of my house haven’t caused a cover-up. I just tiptoe more.

dead cicadas

My house is bugged.

The love of going bare-footed could be a growing-up-in-the-sixties-on-the-beach thing. I sometimes feel, though, as if I’m part of a small group. I notice most of my friends and family shun it, and shoe-up. Even inside.

If there is a down side to 50-plus years of exposed feet (I never, ever wear shoes inside my house), it’s foot-bottoms as hard as pigskin, a bevy of broken, sprained, and twisted toes from years of tripping over door jams, and banging into walls without protection. I’ve inadvertently stepped on slugs, a dead squirrel; been punctured by rocks, stung by bees; slipped into a head-cracking fall on mud; sliced off toenails on steps.

But, I’m a lifer. Even come winter, there are no socks between my feet and boots or shoes. Though I may no longer ride a bike barefoot, I take my shoes off when I drive.

So, I stand by my bare feet. Forever. Yes, bury me with my boots off.

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A Pictorial, and Bittersweet Memories, of Summers Past

25 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Art, Confessional

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Allenhurst Beach Club, Art, Asbury Park, Asbury Park Boardwalk, Casino, confessional, Convention Hall, Julie Seyler, The Write Side of 50, Wonder Bar

Summer.

Summer. All photos by Julie Seyler.

BY JULIE SEYLER

For me, the coming of summer triggers walks down lanes dotted with memories; picture postcards of the past.

I step back to the summer of 1970. Endless days spent sitting on the beach with friends, and hanging out in the snack bar at Loch Arbor Beach listening to, “I Love You More Today Than Yesterday,” playing Hearts or Spades. Nights that began with a walk from the Casino, at one end of the boardwalk in Asbury, and ended with pinball at Convention Hall, at the other end, until one of our parents would arrive to take us home.

And even earlier than that, I remember bike rides to Allenhurst Pharmacy for hot fudge sundaes, and trips to the Palace to ride the bumper cars, the ferris wheel and the carousel. I would try to grab the gold ring as the horses spun up and down and round and round. Way before the riots took down Asbury Park, the Palace, which was Tillie’s home before the Wonder Bar saved her, was an extravagant indoor amusement park.

And earlier than that, it was about catching fireflies. An empty jelly jar in hand, I was out for the hunt.

Flash 50 years forward – I never see fireflies anywhere; the Allenhurst Pharmacy gave way to a dress shop 30 years ago. But the Casino has been rebuilt from a battered shell, and Convention Hall continues to shine forever true.

The Casino

The Casino, today, rising.

Convention Hall.

Convention Hall. Steadfast.

And, of course some things refuse to change. Summer weekends I am sitting on Allehurst beach, albeit no longer playing cards, but still hanging with my card-partners from way back then.

still sitting on the beach

Still sitting on the beach with the same old crowd.

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Memories of a Golf Caddy

20 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Caddying, Frank Terranella, Golf, Men, The Write Side of 50

Frank Terranella caddies.

Frank Terranella: Caddy. Art by Julie Seyler.

By FRANK TERRANELLA

I’ve always found that June is the prime golf month in the New York area. In May, courses are still not done recovering from the winter. In July, the grass begins to burn out, and the tees and greens begin to show the wear and tear of hordes of weekend golfers.

I grew up with golf. In fact, I spent every summer from when I was 14 until I was 22 caddying at a New Jersey country club. I was never a good golfer, but I enjoyed caddying.  You got to accompany people out having a good time. I can assure you it beats the hell out of accompanying them to court as I did later in life as a lawyer. Sure, the work was sometimes hard when the mercury hit 90, and the golf bags you were carrying were the size of a Buick, but you really can’t beat a job where you are paid for essentially taking a walk in the country.

Caddies came in two varieties – the schoolboys and the adults. The adult caddies, many of whom were on the right side of 50, ranged from family men who caddied on their days off, to winos who often tried to win enough at the caddyshack card game so they didn’t have to walk the course at all. More often than not, we would see these guys out on the course in late afternoon sun struggling to climb the 14th hole.

Golf carts have been around for decades, and they were in full use back when I was caddying. But the country club where I worked had a rule that was typical of the time – they required members to hire a caddy, even if they rented a cart. The caddy would just carry putters, advise the golfer on distances, and keep track of hit golf balls. This bit of featherbedding had the salutary effect of providing many jobs, not just for teens, but also for men who caddied to supplement their incomes. Notice I say “men,” because women, even if they could physically handle the job (and many could), would not be hired as caddies at most country clubs back then.

In addition to not hiring women caddies, back in the “Mad Men” days, many country clubs also restricted when women could play golf. The club would usually designate one or two days a week as ladies days. Women could also play on Sunday afternoons, but only if they were accompanied by their husbands. So there were large periods of time when only men were on the course. And of course, all the caddies were male. The members justified this segregation by saying that they wanted to be able to swear without having to worry about offending ladies. The thing was, when we caddied for women, they used just as much foul language when they missed a shot. I think the real reason why men wanted to play without women was because they seemed to take perverse pleasure in unzipping their fly and relieving themselves anywhere along the course. As a caddy, it was my job sometimes to act as lookout and a shield for a shy golfer who didn’t want to be seen heeding the call of nature.

But there was an art to being a good caddy. You had to be out of sight until just the moment when the golfer needed you. You had to offer encouragement after a bad shot. You had to share, with the golfer, your expert knowledge of the course you walked every day. And like all personal service jobs, you had to do it with a smile, even when the golfer cursed you out because a club clattered while he was putting.

After my caddying days ended, I lost touch with golf. Perhaps one of the joys of retirement one day may be to rediscover the game.  But certainly at this time of year, when I smell dew-covered grass on a summer morning, I think back to my youthful days on the links.

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Seven Months In (That’s Six Longer Than We Expected)

19 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Confessional

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Anniversary, confessional, Julie Seyler, Lois DeSocio, The Write Side of 50

Champagne to celebrate!

BY JULIE SEYLER

Lois and I launched this blog on November 19, 2012. I was recovering from hip replacement surgery. Our goal was to see if we could keep it up for a month. We did not want unnecessary burdens on our shoulders.

As Lois said: “As long as we’re having fun. When it’s no longer fun, we’ll stop.”

Seven months later: We are still having fun.

So, my seven-month anniversary toast is devoted to the perfect partnership. I am a deep-brow worrier; Lois waltzes through the thunder. Better yet, she never gets tired of telling me that I do not need to worry. The water in my glass is usually a little below the halfway line; hers is flowing over the top. But we manage to crack up over the same things.

So, here’s to you, my friend!

HERE'S TO YOU

Here’s to you.

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Thirty One Years Since, “I Do”

18 Tuesday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Men, wedding anniversary

bob maria

Maria, when we first met. And that’s me chortling in the background.

BY BOB SMITH

Thirty-one years ago, I changed my life with two words: “I do.” Maria and I got married in the courthouse in Paterson because it was too much trouble to have my first marriage annulled so we could get married in a church. The contrast between my second wedding day and my first was striking. At the time of my first marriage (when I was 24 years old), I was terrified, nervous, and not at all sure I was doing the right thing. On the morning of that first wedding day I had a strange itching sensation on my back. I peeled off my dress shirt to let my Dad have a look, and he announced that my back was covered with hives.

“You’re just nervous, Bobby.” He laughed.

I’d never had them before, and I haven’t had them since. The marriage, a mistake, lasted barely three years. The morning of my second marriage, June 18, 1982, was warm and sunny. I was excited and nervous – this time in a good way – as I put on my suit in the garden apartment we’d rented in anticipation of the wedding. I bounded down the steps, and came upon Mr. Coley, an older gentleman who shared the downstairs apartment with his wife and small dog. He was just coming out of his door with a bag of trash in one hand, and the leash in the other.

“Heyyyy … where you rushing off to like that?”

“I’m gettin married,” Mr. Coley. “Today. Right now. To Maria!”

I rushed past him out the door, barely hearing his startled congratulations, happier than I’ve ever been. Not a hive in sight.

We have never looked back. That’s not to say it’s always been easy – there are plenty of ups and downs in 31 years. For instance, my parents, Maria’s parents, and her grandparents all attended our courtroom wedding ceremony, and the modest reception that followed. Of that group of six, only my mom is still alive.

On the other hand, we’ve conceived and raised three amazing children along the way. Now it’s all a jumbled memory of dirty diapers, skinned knees, school concerts, soccer games, class projects, plays, squabbles over toys, broken hearts, holidays, homework, family vacations, sleepover parties, learning to ride bikes, learning to drive cars, and packing off to college. Maria and I have been together through all that and more, sharing our energy and experience and love, and making this house a home.

I was 27 going on 28 when we got married in 1982, looking ahead to being 30, and “all grown up.” Now I’m 58 looking at 59, having grown up along the way, and wondering what the next phase of life will bring. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Just as we did 31 years ago, we’ll join hands and move on, happy and content with each other, and trusting that’s all we’ll need to face whatever lies ahead.

My younger son, now 23, mentioned the other day that Maria and I might get tired of one other one of these days. I’ve now been with her more than half my life, and she’s as much a part of me as my hands, legs, or eyes. Would I ever “get tired” of them? Not a chance.

Here’s to you, Maria. And us. And 31 more.

bob today

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A Father’s Day Toast to My Father Figure: Americo

14 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

confessional, Father's Day, Frank Terranella, Men, The Write Side of 50

Ipad Camera pictures 043

Decades past the right side of 50, Americo remains an enduring testament to a life well-lived.

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

As someone whose father died more than 45 years ago, I have not really celebrated Father’s Day for a long time. I have celebrated my grandfathers and my father-in-law on that day, but none of these people were my father, and it’s not the same.

There’s one person who’s often mistaken for my father, and that’s my mother’s husband. My mother remarried in 1984, and has been married to a man with the improbable name of Americo for nearly 30 years now – far longer than she was married to my father. Americo, who goes by the nicknames of Rick and Merc, is a great guy who was an avid golfer into his late 70s. But he’s been off the links for a while now. You see, he turned 90 on June 1, the same day my son was married.

In fact, we continually embarrassed him that day when hundreds of wedding guests, many of whom he did not know, came up to him and congratulated him on the milestone. And of course, we had a cake, and my nieces sang “Happy Birthday.” It was very gracious of my son and his bride to share their day with him.

So Americo has been on the right side of 50 since 1973, and although he’s slowed down a bit with age, he’s still very much living and loving life. I’d say he has a good shot at making it to 100. Seeing Americo still enjoy watching golf and baseball, his beloved gelato and the occasional martini, is an inspiration to those of us more recently arrived at 50 plus. He provides the kind of perspective on life that only longevity can bring.

The thing about living a very long time is that you have to watch everyone your age – friends and family – die before you. That’s sometimes almost too much to bear. Americo still gets choked up sometimes talking about his beloved first wife, whom he lost to cancer more than 30 years ago.

Speaking of hurt, Americo suffers from chronic back pain from his golfing days. But he didn’t let it stop him from making the five-hour car ride to Vermont recently for the wedding. He couldn’t miss that. You see, he’s been a true grandfather to my children from the day they were born. And here’s the kicker – he never had any children of his own. Yet as soon as my wife and I had kids, he took on babysitting chores right along with my mother. He took them to parks to play, and on trips to pick strawberries. He was responsible for their learning how to swim.

By the time Americo married my mother, I had already been married for five years. So he never had to play father to me as might have been the case had I been 15 or 16. But he always represented to me the prime example of the American Dream. He was born in the United States to Italian immigrants, who were so proud of their new country that they named their only son after it. He spoke only Italian until he entered kindergarten. But then he assimilated and worked his way to middle-class security with a house, and a yard, that was the envy of his neighbors for many years.

So as he enters his 10th decade on this planet, I think it’s about time I recognized this father figure who continues to show everyone who knows him that life after 50 can be very sweet indeed.

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Cleaning Out for Moving Day (Except the Wrap, Ribbon, Bows and Corks)

12 Wednesday Jun 2013

Posted by WS50 in Confessional, Men

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

Bob Smith, confessional, Men, Moving

ribbon

BY BOB SMITH

Moving out of a house after 28 years is an involved process. We started by cleaning all the obvious junk out of the basement and the closets, which took us about eight days (spread out over three months of weekends). One pile of stuff was designated “garbage,” another was labeled “give to family,” another “give to charity,” and another pile – ideally, but not always, the smallest – was labeled “keep.”

Except for wrapping paper, ribbon, and bows. Those are always in the “keep” pile at my house. We have carefully packed, and will take with us to our next house more than a dozen partially-used rolls of gift wrap with patterns to cover every conceivable occasion. Probably 80% of our collection is Christmas wrap, because we’re so heavily invested in that particular holiday. But if you need birthday wrap, we have both juvenile and grown-up patterns available. Fancy metallic wrap suitable for anniversaries or everyday giving? Yup – gold, silver and multicolored varieties can be found in our basement. We even have some Halloween wrap that features pumpkins and skulls on a black background pierced by glaring “spooky eyes.”

The rolls of wrap are jammed into shopping bags on a shelf, jumbled together like festive baguettes. Nestled among the bags of wrap are other bags jammed with pre-tied ribbons (the kind with sticky paper stapled to the bottom, often with bits of colored paper still attached from when they were ripped off their original packages), as well as rolls and rolls of string ribbon that you peel off and tie yourself. Some of these come in small spools where the ribbon is looped around itself, just like rolls of kite string. If you tied all our spare ribbon end to end, you could fly a kite on motley string from here to Milwaukee.wrap

But we wouldn’t waste ribbon like that. After all, we might need it someday to garnish a gift we’ve wrapped with one of the multitudinous scraps of paper lurking in our basement.

Don’t get me wrong. I love nicely wrapped and decorated gifts. But it seems to me we’d all be better off if we recycled that old wrapping paper – not by using it to wrap gifts for years to come, but by tossing it in the municipal recycling bin. We’d help the economy by buying new paper (and ribbon) for every wrapping occasion, and we’d help the environment by letting that valuable paper be made into newer, more exciting and vibrant patterns to delight new generations of gift-givers and recipients everywhere. Best of all, we’d avoid the ever-growing encroachment of clutter in our basement created by all that wrap, ribbon, and bows.

Before you know it, there won’t be any room for my wine cork collection. I’ve been saving them for years because they seem so damn useful. They’re dense and waterproof, with solid structure and character. They’re decorated with writing and artwork, and have colorful stains to remind us of the wine we enjoyed with them. They float.corks

And you can do any number of cool things with them. Sliced in half, lengthwise, and fit into the proper wooden frame, they can be turned into lumpy message boards or wobbly trivets. Thinner pieces cut across the diameter of the corks are ideal for making sturdy, slip-resistant (and maybe a bit uneven) feet for wood cutting boards. Or you can just toss them, whole, into a jumbo decorative jar, and enjoy the ambience and personality that flows from their collective presence in a room.

Someday I’ll make all those things, and more, with that fine collection of corks, and give them away as gifts. I already know how we’ll wrap them.

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Love, Sweat, Tears, and a Little Déja`Vu at My Son’s Wedding

10 Monday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional, Men

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

confessional, Frank Terranella, Men, The Write Side of 50, Wedding

BY FRANK TERRANELLA

frank wedding 2

frank wedding

One of the joys of life after 50 is seeing your children get married and start families of their own. It provides the prospect of continuity of the family name, and I guess on some fundamental level, it signals that the biological imperative to pass down your genes has been fulfilled. My doctor once told me that once you fulfill your reproductive obligations, Mother Nature does her best to kill you off because you’re no longer of any value to the herd. Thankfully, modern medicine usually frustrates Mother Nature’s murderous ways.

Anyway, my son was married on June 1, and I found it to be a marvelous experience. The wedding was in Vermont, the home state of his new wife. Vermont is a lovely place, and its rolling, green lushness was particularly evident after a wet spring. The weather was a bit peculiar, as it is wont to be in this era of climate change. The weekend before the wedding, it was in the low 40s, and there was spring skiing at Killington. However, June 1 was quite a different story. The thermometer hit 90 degrees, an all-time record for Burlington, Vermont on that day. While a 90-degree day in New York is just another summer day, northern Vermonters are not used to that kind of heat. They usually don’t need air conditioning, and so we found that the reception hall was cooled only by fans. Needless to say, fans are not up to the job of cooling a barn full of people in fancy clothes, particularly when they start dancing. My daughter’s boyfriend perspired so profusely that he had to throw the shirt away, as nothing could remove the perspiration stains. Fortunately, the cathedral where the wedding ceremony occurred was fully air conditioned. As I watched from the front row (there are some benefits to being father of the groom), I was struck by a sense of déjà vu.

I looked at my son and saw myself 35 years ago. It was very strange. And very right. But then the priest pronounced them married, they kissed, and the crowd applauded. Suddenly, an involuntary sound burst out from deep in my chest. It was a sob of joy. It was just one short outburst, but I immediately thought back to the last time I could remember reacting in that way. It was 27 years ago, and the nurse in the delivery room handed my son to me. This same primal sob of joy blared out of me then. Now the little boy was a man, and taking a wife. I think that probably the best thing about getting older is having the joy of seeing the fruits of your parenting labors. Being a parent is not an easy job, and when it goes right, it’s cause for celebration. So here’s to a son well-done, and his lovely bride.

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When One Door Closes …

07 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

confessional, Lois DeSocio, Moving, The Write Side of 50

photo

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I love my house as much as a person can love a structure. To me, who is not really materialistic for the most part, it is the most wonderful composite of wood and glass; stone and grass. I’ve pretty much humanized it. I talk to it. It comforts me. And as I prepare to move out of it – and take the 15 years of me, and my family, away from it – I feel like it, too, is sagging a bit from roof to root in sadness and loss.

spindles

I do believe we fixed this missing spindle. Twice.

Yes – get a grip, Lois. Although my heart is being tugged daily from my chest to my gut, my head does reign. It’s time to turn things over. For me, it will be my new leaf. For my home – the deed.

But this house (my fourth and final) is hard to leave. It is enchanting. It’s rambling, old, and solid. It comes with some history (Abraham Lincoln has sat in front of my 200-year-old marble fireplace), humor (stairway spindles have gone missing without notice), a mix of modern-day convenience (floor-to-floor laundry shoot), and old-time charm (buzzers on all floors, and a bicycle bell on the kitchen wall).

There’s lots of space to be alone, but it’s not so cavernous as to allow loneliness. It can be filled with people, and not feel crowded. The whole downstairs has allowed my kids, when they were smaller, and as present-day strapping young men, to run in circles with our crazy border collie throughout, until she pants and slides herself into a sideways floor-flop – as happy as if she had just run through a field of Kentucky bluegrass. It is also dotted with curves and corners for intimate gatherings alongside leaded glass windows that make the sun sparkle and shimmer when it comes inside. And it has long kitchen counters that beckon: “Lean on me.”

Moving

Off the walls. Pulled out of drawers. Into boxes.

Preparing to move has meant that gerunds and present participles (those “ing” words) have ruled for a year now: Hauling (disposing), Packing (sweating), Cleaning (back-breaking), Staging (announcing). Crying. But with no menopause in sight, and without warning, lately, after I break into a wet mess of gulping, heaving sobs that take me to my knees at the thought of leaving – in a flash, I then rise up into a twirly, heel-kicking danseur – prancing from room to room, ears plugged with iPod music, arms and head ceiling-ward, with my heart less tugged, and more joyful, in tribute to every bit of the wonderful space I got to live in.

So, now that the contractors, who have been renovating my home, and have become an extended family for the last seven months have left, and the realtors who will be selling my house are “moving” in, I have done some unpacking. Specifically, the unpacking of some new “ing” words. Like: Breathing. Arising. Fulfilling.

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I Can’t Hear the Birds in the Forest for the Cicadas on the Trees

06 Thursday Jun 2013

Posted by Lois DeSocio in Confessional

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Bird Watching, Cicadas, confessional, Margo D. Beller, The Write Side of 50

IMG_0325

BY MARGO D. BELLER

I was driving to one of my favorite places to find birds in Morris County, New Jersey, near where I live, when I heard a strange noise and wondered what was happened to my engine.

When I stopped at an intersection, I realized it was not my engine, but an invasion.

Specifically, a cicada invasion.

You know the routine. It’s been the same since we were children. The middle of summer is defined by the whir of cicadas by day, and crickets by night. Both insects are doing the same thing – the males are calling out their availability to mate with females.

This, however, is another type of cicada. This one has the science fiction name of Brood II.

These cicadas will hang around for a few weeks calling, mating and creating new cicadas, then dying – their young not appearing for another 17 years as fully-formed teenagers itching to call and mate.

So far, this plague has not made it to my backyard – yet. Plague isn’t too strong a word either. Cicada, according to the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, is a Latin word for locust. Unlike the locust, the cicada won’t ruin crops, and it won’t bite you. But it is an ugly insect, and it makes quite a din when you have a couple of thousand going once the soil gets warm enough, as it recently did.

When I got to my birding location the cicadas were flying everywhere. The noise forced me to listen very hard to hear the catbirds, yellow warblers, house wrens and Baltimore orioles, among others. But with the exception of a few blue-gray gnatcatchers, none of the birds appeared to be going after the cicadas. Perhaps they had only just arrived this June day and the birds were too busy singing to protect their breeding territories. As I said, the usual New Jersey cicada feast starts in July when baby birds need to be fed.

Or perhaps the birds were overwhelmed by the sheer number of them.

I don’t know. But I do know I was more than a little annoyed at having to work harder than usual to hear anything over the din. I had been in the mountains of neighboring Sussex County the previous day, and had heard over 50 types of birds, and not one cicada, for which I was now grateful.

Trying to identify 50 bird calls is hard enough when they’re all going at once. Trying to identify 50 bird calls with an extra layer of cicada whirring is torture.

At some point I would hope the birds realize the early insect bonanza they have, and start eating. Birds aren’t stupid, or they wouldn’t have lasted so long.

But for this birder, the end of Brood II can’t come soon enough.

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