The day I was born — June 5, 1953 — the 17-year cicadas reached the height of their appearance in central Pennsylvania.  The news made the lower front page of the Bedford Daily Gazette three days later.  My appearance made page two of that same edition, though it was not listed under “Hospital Happenings” with two other births and several admissions and discharges. Instead, my birth was under a separate headline, “Blessed Events”:

My mother saved the entire edition. My appearance as well as that of the cicadas was no doubt overshadowed by other front-page headlines: “Armistice Near in Korea War As U.N., Red Delegates Meet,” “Teachers Sorority Initiates Pearl Buck at Convention,” and, “Guntotin’ Grandma Invades Redlight Area in Cleanup Drive.” 

The newspaper is now yellow and ragged.  I’m ancient news. The “Blessed Event” in the June 8, 1953 Bedford Daily Gazette could very well be the only reported event of my life.  On the other hand, the 17-year cicadas have appeared four more times in my lifetime, making the front page each time. The second time they appeared, in 1970, I was asked to leave my childhood home. The third time they appeared in 1987, I discovered the June 8, 1953 Bedford Daily Gazette in a box my parents returned to me when they sold their one and only home and most of its belongings. I also came out as a lesbian that year. And the fourth time they appeared in 2004, I hosted a cicada-themed birthday party, asking everyone to bring cicada-inspired gifts.

One friend created a cicada-husk mandala.  Another special ordered a cake in the shape of a cicada, complete with red eyes and a long, tube-like mouth. And then there was Adrienne’s gift. We hadn’t known each other long, but she let her creativity go wild and compiled a music CD of cicada-inspired songs such as “I’m Coming Out” by Diana Ross and “The Bitch is Back” by Elton John.  It even included fake review blurbs like, “I caught a buzz just by listening – Rolling Stone” and “I couldn’t stop humming these tunes – Spin.”  It was brilliant. The rest, as they say, is herstory.

Tomorrow, I will be 68 years old, and for the fifth time in my life, millions of cicadas have again emerged and invaded my front and backyards, reminding me of those long life periods when I’ve gone underground, then resurfaced and gone back underground and resurfaced again. What have I emerged to this time? The past year has seen the incalculable toll of a worldwide pandemic; the devastation of hurricanes, tornadoes, wildfires, climate change; threats to democracy; too, too many mass shootings; and an ever-widening divide between the haves and have-nots.

And me? This past year, for the first time in my life, I have been hospitalized for what turned out to be a severe panic attack, not heart attack; had more surgery on my nose to remove cancer (the stitches continue to become infected); been informed that I will, at some point, need a right hip and two knee replacements; learned of the significant slowing down of my 95-year-old father; and been dissed by my one remaining client forcing me to realize that I have indeed retired (who knew?). Also, I had to euthanize my sweet cattie, Scout. On the other hand, I have Adrienne; the best friends in the entire world; a lovely home filled with exquisite art, photography, books and music; not-too-bad-health for a broad my age; my other cattie, Jem; a decent car; a voracious curiosity about most anything; and last, but not least, an obsession with the rising sun.

Who would have thought that someone diagnosed with double depression and, more recently, “profound compressed rage” would, two mornings ago, look at the rising sun and think: I no longer live in the years of the cicadas. I live in the mornings of the rising sun. Perhaps I am finally emerging to rise and shine, rise and shine, rise and shine . . . no matter the darkness. It will be a happy birthday, a blessed event.