“The heaven of a grasshopper is the wheat field, the heaven of man is the same place, the very earth itself where we get our food and build our happiness.”
Mehmet Murat Ildan, Turkish novelist and playwright
It seemed a long time since we’d seen rain falling across the fields or raindrops dimpling the surface of the lakes. Watching the hurricanes and tropical storms develop we were hoping we might get a slow gentle rain while not causing harm anywhere else. The misting started last Tuesday. I spent the morning running around collecting grocery items, particularly fruits and vegetables. They run out quickly. The checkout girl said she didn’t care for pineapple and never had. I told her once you stop eating sugary desserts, pineapple is amply sweet as is the cantaloupe. She said she’d stopped drinking cokes. She liked almond milk and water to drink, but she still ate raisin bran: “It should be pretty good for you, shouldn’t it?”
On the drive home the rain misted, then picked up to a slight rain, then stopped altogether again. The groceries were put away. Sam had washed a load of clothes, dried, folded and put them away. Afterwards, he stood at the window looking out over the field, saying, “I wonder if I could get some bushhogging in before the rain comes solid?” Slowly he picked up the tractor keys, headed to the tractor shed and out to the field.
I took the opportunity to check the perennial garden and the flowerbeds. I’d been watering and noticed the trees were suffering. Leaves were pale and dust-covered from dirt kicked up on the gravel road. Even the lake had a slight dust cover over the surface. The crepe myrtle was losing leaves, and they were falling into the goldfish pond. A rain would be a good thing.
Opening the door to the greenhouse, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, something dark. I looked carefully, not wanting to tangle with a snake, a field mouse or anything creepy. Then I spotted the creature. The largest grasshopper I’d ever seen. He had remarkable colorings. I took off to the house and returned with the phone, hoping he’d still be there so I could get a picture. He was. While I tried to move in close, he’d move away but didn’t hop or fly. As I hovered over him my biggest fear was he’d hop into my face. Mercifully, he didn’t.
From the photograph, I was able to identify my grasshopper as a “horse lubber.” They pretty much reside all over the Southeast, varying slightly in coloration. My horse lubber is black, with yellow and red markings. He has pink wings he uses to scare off predators by waving them around. The horse lubber cannot fly, so he moves about walking, crawling and with short clumsy hops. This would explain why my grasshopper remained right where I left him. If you pick one up, they will hiss and spit. Don’t do it. Males can grow to 4 inches. Their habitat of choice is “weedy vegetation” and “weedy fields,” which would explain why he had chosen the Prairie homestead.
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