There’s an old countryman’s proverb which says autumn’s first frost will follow six weeks after the katydids begin to sing.
It’s a time-honored dictum to which I give fair credence. Because, like so many folksy adages, this pronouncement is often true… at least sometimes.
Of course, as such rules go, it’s not infallible. Which should never come as a surprise or devalue its usefulness.
We are, after all, talking about an aspect of weather involving a degree of guesswork—and we all know how inscrutable and unpredictable the subject of accurate weather forecasting can be!
Unfortunately, when it comes to acknowledging the katydid’s prognosticative prowess, those who put their faith in science and technology tend to scoff at the mere notion that a big green bug could deliver any insight regarding future weather.
In their mind, the validity of the katydid’s reputation as a weather prophet is about as dubious as that of the shadow-seeking groundhog in predicting spring, or the woolly bear caterpillar’s divination as to the coming winter’s severity.
Moreover, I’ll candidly admit the katydid does sometimes get it wrong.
Of course, those professional media darlings, chatty “weather experts” with blow-dried hair and a string of fancy meteorological degrees, also regularly proclaim scenarios—issuing both cautions and reassurances—that turn out to be incorrect.
Weather forecasting is a tricky endeavor for humans and insects. It’s a bit disingenuous when we go throwing disparaging stones from our glass house.
Here are the facts and truth of the matter as I know them…
Having tracked the dates of the first katydid/first frost relationship for decades, I can tell you there have been any number of years when that debut frost arrived eight to ten weeks after I heard the initial katydid’s call. Meaning the katydid got it wrong.
But more importantly, there has been a preponderance of years when that timing prophecy was astonishingly accurate! Close enough to hitting smack on the mark that any reasonable scorekeeper has to award them the point.
What prompted all these ruminations was that fact that I recently heard this year’s first katydid calling.
I suspect the sound of the nocturnal singer’s calls was what woke me. Not that it was in any way disturbing—just sufficiently out-of-place to jiggle and slosh a few hypersensitive brain waves and stir me to consciousness.
The rush of almost musical fiddle notes came pouring through the screen mesh of our bedroom window. Loud, clear, unmistakable.
It was long past midnight. The waning moon had already slipped westward across the sky and was now sinking, hidden behind the riverbank sycamores.
I lay there for a long while in the darkness, awake, listening, and wondering as the katydid’s strident declarations filled the summer night.
Was I now hearing a phenological countdown begin?
I might have considered dismissing this thought a couple of weeks ago—back when daytime temperatures were regularly climbing into the 80s, and night lows never sank below the mid-70s mark.
However, the other morning, I accompanied the dog outside for her pre-breakfast constitutional.
Dawn was finding its way above the eastern horizon. A heavy dew covered the ground, bushes, and parked cars; everything glistened.
But what impressed me first was the temperature, which was shockingly frigid! An unexpected damp cold smacked me in the face and chilled my lungs when I gasped.
Whoooo! It felt like fall!
I promptly whirled around and quickly reached back inside to grab a jacket from the wall’s entryway hook.
The round dial-type thermometer hanging in the deckside box elder read a shocking 54 degrees. It felt more like 34 degrees to my aging, summer-acclimated carcass!
Yes, that was only a single-morning temperature drop, an anomalous setback—and by midmorning, it warmed into the more normal low-80s.
But it served as a reminder—if not a portent—of how quickly things can change, weather-wise.
The one definitive fact regarding weather is that it always changes—which possibly explains why it’s so often the first thing we talk about.
It’s a pretty predictable bet that as we transition seasonally from the heat and malingering Dog Days swelter, to more invigorating mornings, comfortable afternoons, and downright crisp nights—weather will become a big part of our casual conversations.
I don’t know when we’ll get our first frost. Neither does anyone else, man or bug.
But I do know at least a few katydids have now begun to sing.
So, what if this green-winged musician plays a raspy fiddle? Or that his bowing renders a monotonous tune of dubious tonality?
Give the katydid a break—and give him his due! And I’d also advise you pay attention.
All the guidebooks would have you believe that when the katydid sings, the odd-shaped, oversized, green-as-a-snow-pea grasshopper cousin is musically pronouncing its name: “Kay-tee-did! Kay-tee-did! Kay-tee-did!”
But I think otherwise. I believe you need to listen carefully. Because when the katydid chorus sings and plays, en masse, they excel in delivering a singular potent declaration…an important message in repetitious, emphatic song. About which, they’re never wrong:
“Change is coming! Change is coming! Change is coming!”
Reach Jim McGuire at [email protected].
