On Katydids, Purple Loosestrife, and High School Reunions

For my entire life, I have listened to people bitch about how teachers have it so easy . . . summers off,  seven-hour days, long holiday breaks, etc. My intention in this post is not to defend my profession (what's the point?), except to say this: if the opportunity for "time off" did not exist, I suspect most teachers would burn out in the first two years. My teaching career spanned thirty years, and I regret nothing . . . except maybe those twelve-hour Sunday sessions grading papers while my family went for a hike.

Even though I've been retired for nearly sixteen years, I still experience a certain dread at this time of year. Summer's almost over, and I will have to go back to work. As is true with almost everything, anticipation is far worse than actuality. It doesn't take long to get back into the routine, to learn the names of up to 150 teenagers, and to become, once again, engaged in the work of inspiring young minds with great literature. Knowing that, however, does not change the dread that summer is winding down and it's almost time to get back into the trenches.

In early August, the katydids start singing. Of course, they're not actually singing. Their "song" is produced by rubbing a hind leg on one wing, and it's a song only sung by the males. They sing in unison, each male trying to beat out the others to be the first to hit a note. Why? Because the females are drawn to that dominant male. (It's always about sex, isn't it?) Once the nighttime temperature drops below 52 degrees F., the males stop singing. I guess they've won their mates and no longer feel the need. By the way, a new species of katydid has recently been discovered in Madagascar. These are aggressive long-horned grasshoppers with large biceps and bodies that span over 2 1/2", placing them among the largest insects that exist. And they bite!

It's the song of the katydid and the appearance of the invasive Purple Loosestrife (Lythrum salicaria) that have always served as audial and visual reminders to me that summer is waning. At the sight of a marshy field rife with tall, purple flowers or the nighttime sound of grasshopper sex, my mood shifts from unencumbered freedom to the weight of responsibility. Basically, I have always ruined the last month of my summer vacation by anticipating back-to-school intensity. And again, I've been retired for a good many years . . . and yet I still feel that shift.

But last night, I attended a high school reunion for the first five classes to graduate from a school at which I taught in my twenties. These were the classes of 1976 through 1980, and I remember so many of those "kids" so fondly. They're not kids anymore, celebrating their 38th through 42nd high school graduation anniversaries. Through several conversations, I was reminded of the rewards of the career I chose, despite those long hours of paper-grading. In most cases, I did not remember the stories they shared about what I did or what I said to them or what I wrote in their yearbooks, but one thing was clear: I'd made some kind of impression on them, in ways I never would have known at the time. In how many other careers can one enjoy such a perk? I began to feel sorry that I will not be returning to the classroom in a couple of weeks.

And that sorrow lasted about as long as it takes for katydids to have sex.

Bring on your ephemeral magenta beauty, Purple Loosestrife! Sing away, Katy Did and Katy Didn't! On the first day of school, I'm sleeping in!