#exploreneoh

[exploreneoh]

Kent's Black Squirrel Mania

Throughout the city of Kent and neighboring municipalities, it is impossible to miss all the Black Squirrels. Aside from seeing the actual rodents scurrying around suburban yards and the university grounds, images of Black Squirrels are proudly displayed on bumper stickers and students’ tee-shirts. The nexus of the Black Squirrel mania is Kent State University which, every year, hosts its annual Black Squirrel festival, the pinnacle of Black Squirrel pride. But why all the love for this seemingly common animal?

Before researching this piece, I never knew that Black Squirrels were anything special. Since childhood, I have seen them everywhere: in my neighbors’ grass, in the forests, in trees near my home, even in urban settings. I see them at my university where they steal specks of food discarded along sidewalks and only show any kind of trepidation towards humans when you’re mere inches away from them! In my experience, Black Squirrels are brave, ornery, strong, and mini-but-mighty mammals determined to harvest and feast upon acorns and rubbish, alike. I never knew that these creatures are so special and unique to Northeast Ohio, and that they hadn’t always been here until recently.

The saga of how Black Squirrels came to Kent (and eventually proliferated through the rest of Northeast Ohio) began in 1961, when Kent State University groundskeeper superintendent, Larry Woodell, traveled to London, Ontario. There, he encountered a plethora of exotic-looking Black Squirrels. Prior to his trip to Canada, Woodell had only ever seen a single Black Squirrel once in Chardon. After conducting some research, Woodell discovered that Black Squirrels, which once thrived throughout the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence Valley regions, were quickly decreasing in number in Northeast Ohio. Woodell and Davey Tree employee, “Biff” Staples, proceeded to enact “Operation Black Squirrel.” According to a 2013 Kent State University College of Education, Health, and Human Services newsletter, “[t]he pair worked with the United States and Canadian governments to transport Black Squirrels to Kent in a time period of around six months,” to reintroduce them to the region’s ecosystem. The Canadian Black Squirrels proceeded to mix with Ohio’s native squirrel population, and the initial ten quickly became hundreds.

Since the 1960s, the Black Squirrel population has sharply increased and spread throughout Northeast Ohio and the rest of the state. Benjamin Peters of the Cleveland Plain Dealer reported in 2019 that the squirrels are common within the Cleveland Metroparks system and throughout Cuyahoga County. I frequently see them around Northeast Ohio, myself. Their unique coloring is a result of, “a rare genetic hiccup that can occur in any gray or fox squirrel” (Peters). Greg Smith, assistant professor of biological sciences at Kent State University at Stark predicts that, as Ohio’s forest cover increases, so too will Black Squirrel populations.

The population increase of Black Squirrels mirrors the animal’s ballooning cultural significance in the region. They are considered by many to be Kent State University’s unofficial mascot. Each year, the university hosts its Black Squirrel 5K Race and the Black Squirrel Festival, where students distribute custom Black Squirrel themed shirts and local vendors come together to celebrate the beloved creatures. The university’s student radio station is called Black Squirrel Radio. You can purchase Black Squirrel Blend Coffee from Bent Tree Coffee Roasters in Kent. Many Kent landmarks pay homage to the tiny animal: Black Squirrel Gifts and Squirrel City Jewelers in Acorn Alley are just a few. When asked about what the Black Squirrel means to her school, Kent State University student, Jenna Molinari, told me, “They’re so much fun and they… add such a unique spin on the history of our campus! I mean, everyone who comes to Kent comments on them and I just love that.”

Photo credits:

Top left: Kent Black Squirrel bumper sticker I see, like, everywhere by McKay Bricker Gallery and Framing, Kent, OH

Top right: A black eastern grey squirrel, Calgary, Alberta, 2017 by Crazyjoepaul, Wikimedia Commons

Bottom: Kent State University's Black Squirrel statue, 2020 Kent State University, Kent, OH

Kent State University College of Education, Health, and Human Services. (2013). The Connection. Kent, Ohio; The EEHS Office of Diversity Outreach and Development - Kent State University. https://www-s3-live.kent.edu/s3fs-root/s3fs-public/file/October2013.pdf.

Molinari, J., & Skakun, J. M. (2021, August 24). Cultural Importance of the Black Squirrel at Kent State University. personal.

Peters, B. (2019, July 11). Why are Kent's Black Squirrels Spreading Across Northeast Ohio? Cleveland Plain Dealer. https://www.cleveland.com/metro/2019/07/why-are-kents-black-squirrels-spreading-across-northeast-ohio.html.

[exploreneoh]

Pawpaw: the Ever-Present Ohio Fruit You've Never Heard Of

September in Northeast Ohio usually marks the finale of the abundance of midsummer produce: tomatoes, sweet corn, peppers, concord grapes, zucchini, and the beginning of our glorious annual Ohio apple harvest. A late-summer fruit that’s often overlooked however, is the pawpaw!

Adopted in 2009, the pawpaw (Asimina triloba) is Ohio’s state native fruit and pawpaw trees have populated our hardwood forests for millennia. Common in many states throughout Appalachia and the Ohio valley, the pawpaw is Ohio’s only native fruit. The trees prefer to live on the edge of forests in well-drained soil and have large vibrant tropical-looking simple leaves.

The pawpaw fruit is the largest fruit native to North America, ranging between three and six inches in length. Its skin is green, yellow, or black on the outside and contains a golden avocado-like interior pulp. At the fruit’s center are multiple dark brown seeds comparable in size to nickels. Pawpaws are extremely sweet, with flavors comparable to bananas and mangos.

I’ve been looking intently for pawpaw trees this season and have stumbled upon a few. Shown above, this pawpaw tree is at the Mustill Store Museum in the Cascade Valley MetroPark in Akron. Unfortunately, the tree was bare and there were no pawpaws to be found. There are others lining the grounds of the Highland Square Mustard Seed in Akron. I’ve also seen some very large pawpaw trees while driving south of Wooster.

I did some searching and found a man in Lakewood who operates a small pawpaw orchard out of his backyard. After class a few weeks ago, I hopped in my car and traveled north. I picked up the pawpaws and immediately smelled their ripe sweet aroma. Upon arriving home, I cut open the fruit and ate the yellow flesh with a spoon. Similar in flavor to a banana, pawpaws might be the sweetest fruit I’ve ever tasted. The texture, although soft, was neither mushy nor mealy, and incredibly smooth and silky. The flavor is strong and a little goes a long way. The fruit does not last long, even in the fridge. It is best to eat the pawpaws when they’re ripe or cut them and freeze them to use later.

Pawpaws were important sources of food for Native Americans and European settlers. In the 1500s, European traders in the Ohio and Mississippi valleys documented Native Americans harvesting and collecting pawpaws in late summer. Pawpaws are a living testament to the former Native American villages that once dotted the Ohio plains and forests. Pawpaw groves can be found near iconic Native American sites, including Serpent Mound in Southern Ohio, lingering living witnesses of the region’s former inhabitants.

For the past 23 years, the Ohio Pawpaw festival has been held annually in Albany in Southwest Ohio. The festival aims to celebrate and bring greater awareness to the pawpaw, “through delectable foods, and a full line-up of presentations and activities.” This year’s festival dates are from September 17 – 19. For more information, visit ohiopawpawfest.com. If you can’t make the drive, you can find pawpaw trees throughout the MetroParks and in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. Look out for their distinct tropical-looking foliage. They often grow together in groves.

You may find pawpaw venders at local farmers markets, as well. Rainbow Gardens often sells pawpaws at their vendor station at the Countryside Farmers Market, held Saturday mornings in Howe Meadow in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. For more information, visit countrysidefoodandfarms.org.

When searching for pawpaws, I posted an inquiry on Facebook, asking friends if they knew where I could find any. My grandmother, who lives near Dayton, was surprised to see that I was interested in these fruits she perceived as antiquated and unsophisticated. She recalled stories of growing up on a farm in southern Indiana in the 1950s. She and her relatives would snack on fresh pawpaws and persimmons picked from the trees on the farm, bake them into puddings, and feed the rest to the hogs. Pawpaws, to her, seemed insignificant and reminiscent of a bygone era. Why would anyone be interested in pawpaws, today?

Pawpaws are a testament to those who came before us, those from whom Europeans stole this land, those from whom industrial manufacturing and agriculture stole this land, and those enlightened few who revered its bounties and beauty. I don’t find the pawpaw interesting so much for its contribution to gastronomy or its gustatory novelty, but rather its persistent presence throughout our region’s history. They are of this special place in a way we will never quite be, evolving over millennia for the distinct purpose of thriving here. We, in contrast, are simple visitors, an invasive species with the ability to destroy anything we encounter. Despite this, and despite us, this tree, and its strange fruit, persist and will likely carry on once we move onward.

All photos are my own.

Top left: Pawpaw tree at Mustill Store, Cascade Valley MetroPark, Akron, OH - looking for pawpaws. Couldn't find any! :(

Top center: The four pawpaws I purchased in Lakewood.

Top right: Cut open pawpaw. Delicious!

Bottom: The pawpaw tree adjacent to the Mustill Store, Cascade Valley MetroPark, Akron, OH.

References:

Bir, S. (2019, November 7). Pawpaws: America's best Secret fruit. Serious Eats. Retrieved September 13, 2021, from https://www.seriouseats.com/what-are-pawpaws-wild-fruit-midwest-how-to-prep-and-eat-pawpaws.

Koscho, B. (2020, October 15). Searching for the Pawpaw's Indigenous Roots. WVPB. Retrieved September 13, 2021, from https://www.wvpublic.org/section/arts-culture/2020-10-09/searching-for-the-pawpaws-indigenous-roots.

ODNR. (n.d.). Pawpaw. Ohio Department of Natural Resources. Retrieved September 14, 2021, from https://ohiodnr.gov/wps/portal/gov/odnr/discover-and-learn/plants-trees/broad-leaf-trees/pawpaw-asimina-triloba.

Paw Paw. Ohio History Central. (n.d.). Retrieved September 13, 2021, from http://ohiohistorycentral.org/w/Paw_Paw.

[exploreneoh]

Northeast Ohio's Confederate Cemetery

Writing about and discussing monuments commemorating the Confederacy is a difficult task, which is why I have been avoiding composing this blog post for some time now. The Atlanta History Center divides such monuments into three categories. The first refers to mainly funerary monuments, “erected from the 1860s through the 1880s.” The second era of Confederate monuments were installed during the height of Jim Crow, from 1890 through the 1930s, and consist mainly of “an equestrian statute of a Confederate general in front of a courthouse or capitol.” These were not to mourn the loss of dead soldiers, but to celebrate the deeply racist ideals central to the identity of the former Confederate States of America. They were designed to intimidate African Americans passing through public spaces and remind them of their place in Southern society. Such monuments were, “a naked forewarning to the lowest caste of its subjugation and powerlessness… a psychic trolling of the first magnitude” (Wilkerson, 336). These were shrines and threats, aimed at affirming the myth of the Lost Cause and intimidating anyone who dared defy the strict social order. Such insolence would likely mean death. The final era occurred throughout the mid 20th century in response to Brown v. Board of Education and as an ode to segregation.

The monuments on Johnson’s Island in Ohio’s Sandusky Bay perhaps bridge the first two categories. The first Confederate monument erected on the island, a bronze and granite monolith depicting a standing Confederate soldier, was dedicated by the Cincinnati chapter of the United Daughters of the Confederacy in 1910. Smaller monuments were later installed, the most recent “a set of granite markers dedicated to Confederate prisoners of war,” dedicated by the UDC in 2003. But why are these monuments here, and how should we view them, today?

I drove onto the island after visiting my beloved Marblehead Lighthouse on its namesake peninsula, the rugged, quarry-ridden cape jutting eastward from Toledo into the teal waters of Lake Erie. It was a tumultuous July evening, the trees still dripping from the severe thunderstorm that just passed through, its inky clouds still visible along the eastern horizon. The amber sun, sinking farther in the western sky, merging the remaining puddles and the thick atmosphere. The humidity was extreme.

Johnson’s Island is an unusual place. To cross the causeway from Marblehead, visitors must pay a $2 toll. The island itself is roughly 300 acres and home to extravagant lakeside homes, some built within the old quarry pit hundreds of feet below neighboring residences looming above. Its most unusual feature, however, is the Confederate Stockade Cemetery, located on the island’s northeast corner, overlooking Bay Point and Cedar Point beyond. According to the National Park Service, from 1862 to 1865, the United States War Department imprisoned more than 11,500 Confederates at its facility on Johnson’s Island, which it leased from owner Leonard Johnson for $500 per year. The site, surrounded by the waters of Lake Erie, was chosen for its relative isolation. “It was easily defensible and close to rail lines in Sandusky,” (NPS) deemed so secure, in fact, that only Confederate officers were imprisoned here.

Although originally intended only to house a maximum of 1,000 men at a time, at its peak, Johnson Island’s population exceeded 3,255 in 1865. Population numbers were generally lower, however, due to the Union and Confederate armies frequently swapping prisoners of war. The prison, although more luxurious than those for ordinary soldiers, lacked appropriate sanitation, infrastructure, and food, and was frequently overcrowded. Diseases spread quickly throughout the prison and Lake Erie winters were undoubtedly harsh.

In 1864, Confederate soldiers based in Ontario attempted to raid the island. “They successfully seized two passenger steamers in Lake Erie and planned to capture the USS Michigan and use the warship to free the officers on Johnson’s Island,” (NPS) but aborted the mission. As a result, the Union strengthened its prison’s defenses, fearing possible future attacks.

After Robert E. Lee’s surrender and the Confederacy swore its oath of allegiance to the United States in 1865, the prison’s population decreased. By the end of the year, the War Department had returned control of the island to Johnson. During its time as a prison, only 239 men died on the island, their bodies buried a half mile from the original prison facility. Over 20 bodies were removed by friends and family after the Civil War and taken elsewhere. To commemorate those who remain, 206 marble headstones were erected after a group of Georgia journalists described the lack of permanent markers memorialize these men.

The Robert Patton Chapter of the UDC purchased the cemetery in 1905. Chapter leader, Mary Patton Hudson, worked feverishly to oversee improvements to the sight, including the construction of a fence around the cemetery. Her most notable contribution was the large statue of a Confederate soldier, dubbed The Lookout, created by Moses Ezekiel and dedicated in June 1910. “The [UDC] installed two monuments at the cemetery in 1925. The Mack-Hauck Memorial honors two members of the organization instrumental in preserving the Johnson’s Island cemetery” (NPS). Hudson herself was later dedicated a memorial for her effort to purchase the cemetery which was later donated to the federal government in 1931. Since then, additional granite markers have been placed in memory of Confederate prisoners of war.

Nostalgia has been described as “the suffering caused by an unappeased yearning to return,” (Kundera, 5) and, walking along the rows of headstones and among the ornate monuments in the cemetery on that hot July evening, I was struck by perhaps its opposite. Those who erected such memorials, however, clearly felt this way towards the Confederacy, yearning for its return. The Confederate Cross of Honor in northern soil, with initials CSA encompassing a Confederate battle flag, earnestly and shamelessly celebrates a brief instance of Confederate sovereignty, a reclamation of a place once designed to contain and irradicate it. The pedestal of Ezekiel’s statute reads and is dedicated “to those who died in federal prison on this island during the war between the states,” commemorating those Confederate officers, “dead, but sceptered sovereigns who still rule us from the grave.” The line is from Lord Byron’s Manfred, taken from a scene in which the titular character recounts the former glories of the Roman capital. He describes the “chief relics of almighty Rome,” the “ruinous perfection,” of “Caesar’s chambers, … the Augustan halls,” a place where all that remains is beautiful. “The place Became religion, and the heart ran o’er With silent worship of the great of old” (Byron). The “great of old” here is the legacy of slavery and a society built upon it. For the Confederacy, the owning of twelve generations of human chattels whose patriarchs and matriarchs were stolen from a distant continent was the state-sanctioned religion. The statue is chilling, the words inscribed within it are haunting.

Horrifying as it is, however, I think this is a monument which should be permitted to stand. It is relatively isolated and within a cemetery for America’s war dead. The statuary, although blatantly racist and clearly regaling the country’s most evil legacy, does not act to intimidate citizens in a public square like others. Furthermore, it is a physical relic of a not-too-distant past, personifying the horrors of before, which continue to echo through the modern day. This place made me think of those who commissioned and built its monuments, not with empathy or reverence, but with chilling terror. The tentacles of those who advocated something which, to me, seems almost unimaginable, poke out of the ground in this humble cemetery in Northeast Ohio. The relics earnestly bearing “CSA” really mean it, celebrating a government which actually existed in Montgomery, AL and Richmond, VA, and to which millions (and many who still) pledged their allegiance. These artifacts somehow make it real, the Confederacy: tangible, palpable, solid, and heavy, like a piece of iron in one’s hand. A prolonged southern invasion of my beloved northern home. Let this not be a place of veneration, but one bearing the scars of the past, a quiet warning of the persistence of hatred, imprisoning once more the evils of yore in a fixed position, viewable to all who venture near, but not germinating and sowing the malice, loathing, and rancor of those it commemorates, but nudging us forward to a more equitable and just future.

All photos are my own, taken on Johnson's Island, Ohio, 7/13/2021.

Top left: view of the headstones in the cemetery.

Top right: close-up view of the pedestal of The Lookout.

Bottom left: Iron Cross of the Confederacy, bearing its initials CSA with a Confederate battle flag in the center.

Bottom center: Entrance to the cemetery.

Bottom right: The Lookout.

References:

Byron, L. G. G. (2010). Manfred. Wilder Publications.

Historical introduction: Confederate monuments. Atlanta History Center. (2021, May 11). Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://www.atlantahistorycenter.com/learning-and-research/projects-initiatives/confederate-monument-interpretation-guide/historical-introduction-confederate-monuments/

Kundera, M., & Asher, L. (2002). Ignorance. Harper-Collins.

Manfred dramatic poem - analysis & summary. English History. (2015, April 19). Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://englishhistory.net/byron/poems/manfred-dramatic-poem/

U.S. Department of the Interior. (n.d.). Johnson's Island Confederate stockade cemetery. National Park Service. Retrieved January 21, 2022, from https://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/national_cemeteries/ohio/confederate_stockade_cemetery.html

Wilkerson, I. (2020). Caste: the Origins of Our Discontents. Random House.

Wilkerson, I., & Gross, T. (2020, August 4). It's more than racism: Isabel Wilkerson explains America's 'caste' system. NPR. Retrieved January 19, 2022, from https://www.npr.org/transcripts/898574852

[exploreneoh]

Lake Erie Seiches

Last weekend, I took a trip to Ashtabula’s Walnut Park Beach after the strong stormfront that produced devastating tornados south of Ohio had passed to see the raging Lake Erie. Wind speeds throughout the region exceeded 60 mph. The National Weather Service issued wind and gale advisories throughout northeast Ohio and Pennsylvania. When my partner and I made it to the shore, we saw waves, at 10 – 15 feet tall, relentlessly slamming into the beach over and over again. The ferocious wind flung wet sand at us, stinging any skin we dared expose in the frigid December temperatures. The wind and waves soaked through our jackets and left us shivering and exhausted from their awesome power. This was not the strongest storm our lake has seen, not even close, and it won’t be the last. With climate change, such intense storms will likely become more common, leading to increased rates of erosion at the lakeshore, degrading existing infrastructure and damaging private property.

Such events are common on Lake Erie and her sister lakes, with the most dramatic and deadly usually occurring on Lake Michigan. A seiche, essentially a standing wave oscillating in a body of water, occurs on Lake Erie when strong sustained winds from the west push water to the east. As a result, water levels in the lake’s western basin drop while water levels in the far east, near Buffalo, rise. A seiche differs from storm surge in that the former is accompanied by “significant changes in atmospheric pressure … generating the oscillation of the water,” unique to seiches (Selbig). According to the US National Weather Service in Cleveland, such events are triggered by west-southwest winds of over 40 mph occurring for a long duration. “Once the wind stops, the seiche sloshes back and forth while it slowly calms down like a bathtub” (NWS). Water levels at Edgewater Beach in Cleveland dropped over two feet below normal levels, following the storm. Conversely, water levels in Buffalo rose much higher than average. Over the next few days, without further agitation, the water levels will rise and fall on either side of the lake, eventually returning to normal.

It is important to keep in mind that these are not the same dramatic tides as those that occur in the oceans. The Lawrentian Great Lakes are simply too small for the forces of the Sum and Moon to significantly affect water levels throughout the lakes. According to Jonathan Selbig at Michigan State University, “The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), and the National Ocean Service (NOS) have proven that the spring tide, the largest tide on the Great Lakes, is less than two inches.” All other tidal changes affecting the lakes are negligible. They do not greatly affect seiches which occur on the lakes.

One of Lake Erie’s most dramatic seiches occurred in 1844, when, “a 22-foot seiche breach[ed] a 14-foot-high sea wall,” in New York. The surge ultimately killed 78 people. The lake ice, broken by the seiche, was pushed into the Niagara River. Acting as a dam, the roar of Niagara Falls was temporarily silenced as the ice blocked the river, and the falls ceased to flow. In 2008, a less severe storm caused a seiche which triggered significant floods near Buffalo.

Similar weather conditions caused strong waves on Lake Erie yesterday (12/16). It’s important to remember that, although the lakes, especially Erie, look massive, they are small enough that strong weather can greatly affect them. As climate change leads to stronger storms, Lake Erie may experience a greater number of damaging seiches with increased intensity. Above all, we must remember that the Great Lakes are wild and tumultuous places that are always changing. Although awe inspiring and beautiful, the lakes, capable of inflicting significant damage, should be respected.

NOAA's National Weather Service. (n.d.). Great Lakes Portal. Great Lakes. Retrieved December 17, 2021, from https://www.weather.gov/greatlakes/

Selbig, J. (n.d.). Seiches on the Great Lakes. Retrieved December 17, 2021, from https://project.geo.msu.edu/geogmich/seiches.htm

US Department of Commerce, NOAA (2019, March 14). What is a Seiche? NOAA's National Ocean Service. Retrieved December 17, 2021, from https://oceanservice.noaa.gov/facts/seiche.html

Photo Citations:

Top left and center photos by me - Walnut Park Beach, Ashtabula, OH, 12 Dec. 2021.

Top right and bottom photos from the National Weather Service, Cleveland, OH.

[exploreneoh]

The Soundtrack of Summer

Earlier this summer, I was watching the bank swallows feasting along the Lake Erie coast near Vermilion. They made incredible acrobatic turns, flying with great precision and grace to gorge themselves on the bounty of insects just hatched from the murky banks below.

I heard it first before I saw it. The classic sound of summer, a cicada singing in the hot sun directly in front of me. Unfortunately for the insect, so too did one of the many swallows nearby. The cicada leaped from its perch in a tree, still belting its clamorous song. The copper-colored swallow’s gaze fixed upon the small creature and swooped underneath it, chasing it upward, opposite gravity. The cicada tried to fly away, but the much larger bird was no match for the miniscule insect. Its glorious song was extinguished.

There is nothing more indicative of an Ohio summer day than the sound of the cicadas calling. Although much of the southwestern portion of the state experienced the hatching of Brood X this summer, the reemergence of the periodical cicadas that only make their way to the surface every 13 or 17 years, the northeast was spared this plethoric population of small screaming insects. Sometimes called “dog-day” cicadas, an annual brood, however, reliably emerges from the earth in July and August to sing, procreate, and die, in cyclical and blunt perpetuity.

The lifecycle of cicadas, both periodical and annual, is roughly the same. They both spend most of their lives as small nymphs living underground after hatching from eggs laid in tree stems. The annuals emerge every year. The periodical stay put underground for either 13 or 17 years before returning above ground together in close synchronicity. After emerging from the ground, the nymphs shed their exoskeletons, acquire wings, and are burdened with the arduous and rather noisy task of mating. The males produce their unique clicking sound to attract females by repeatedly contracting a special tymbal muscle. A female cicada deems the most fit, and thus the individual with whom she will most likely mate, to be the one who can call the loudest and the longest in the heat of the afternoon sun. The process is thus repeated over and over again every summer.

Folklore pertaining to cicadas can be found all over the world. Perhaps the earliest example originated in China around 1500 BCE at which time cicadas symbolized rebirth for shedding their exoskeleton to uncover mature wings. According to James Deutsch of the Smithsonian Center for Folklore and Cultural Heritage, ancient Chinese “carved cicadas out of jade, placed them on a corpse’s tongue before burial, and then imagined that those deceased individuals would seemingly emerge out of their decaying bodies and achieve some sort of permanent immortality."

Cicadas are also important to the Hopi of modern-day Arizona. The Hopi claim that cicadas (maahu) first emerged on the earth’s surface from deep underground, passing the Grand Canyon as a portal to the terrestrial world. Their buzzing sound is said to contain special healing properties. A myth shared among the Philippines’ T’boli people recounts a cicada calling at twilight. His mother is the moon, his father is the sun. He is terribly afraid of losing his father as the sun sinks below the vermillion horizon. After dark, he feels abandoned and is extremely anxious and scared, so he attempts to end his life with on last endless, longing, and mournful cry. The Kapampanga people of the Phillipines also associate the cicada with twilight. Sisilim, the goddess of the dusk, is “greeted by the songs of the cicada upon her arrival” (Clark).

Conversely, cicadas are associated with the goddess of the dawn, Eos, in the Greek tradition. In an attempt to acquire immortality for her human lover, Tithonus of Troy, Eos requests his immortality from Zeus. Eos, however, was not quite exact enough with her words because, although Zeus granted Tithonus immortality, he continued to age and was not automatically granted the eternal youth enjoyed by the gods. She failed to mention this integral stipulation. While Eos remained ageless, Tithonus never died, but grew older and older, becoming a “toothless decrepitude [praying] then that he might die” (Myers, 1929). Eos proceeded to lock Tithonus in a room and “[change] him into an ever-complaining Cicada.”

Whether you love the sound of the cicadas or find it annoying, are fascinated by their bizarre exoskeletons that occasionally rest below trees in July, or are appalled by these ghastly and morbid remnants, cicadas are the definitive sound of mid-summer in Ohio. They’re both integral sources of food for Ohio’s birds and mammals and important cultural icons to many cultures worldwide. Despite the ferocity with which the periodic broods emerge every 13 or 17 years, cicadas are harmless to humans and pets and are, frankly, rarely seen for how prevalent they are. They mostly spend their days below ground as nymphs or above singing and mating in trees during midsummer. For me, cicadas are the soundtrack of the summer, a sound I look forward to hearing all year. I recommend the next time you’re outside and hear a cicada begin its call, practice a little cicada mindfulness: for the duration of the cicada call, look around and within you and try to appreciate all that there is and that you have. Reflect upon the truth that, like that cicada’s call, everything is temporary. The flowers in bloom, the heat and humidity of an Ohio summer, and even the brightness of the day will inevitably give way to the frozen barren darkness of the Ohio winter. Remember that, like Tithonus, we will continue to mature, our bodies shedding the exoskeleton of youth and giving way to older and less reliable models. We will wither like the flowers and falter like the end of the cicada call, trailing off into obsolescence. This is inevitable. It is thus imperative that we recognize and enjoy the moments, like these, of simple bliss, for one can never foresee the end or predict one’s final moment of joy.

None of these images are mine. Image credits are as follows:

Top left: Ancient Chinese jade cicadas, Smithsonian Institution, c. 2000 BCE - 220 CE, Washington, DC

Top right: Periodical cicada adult, feeding, the Ohio State University, Columbus, OH

Bottom: Eos pursues the reluctant Tithonus, c. 470–460 BCE, Louvre, Paris, France

Clark, J. (2020, February 1). Formation of the World: Kapampangan Mythology. The Aswang Project. https://www.aswangproject.com/formation-of-the-world-kapampangan-mythology/.

David J. Shetlar and Jennifer E. Andon. (2015, April 1). Periodical and "Dog-Day" Cicadas. Ohio State University Extension. https://ohioline.osu.edu/factsheet/ENT-58.

Deutsch, J. (2021, May 17). Cicada Folklore, or Why We Don't Mind Billions of Burrowing Bugs at Once. Smithsonian Center for Folklife and Cultural Heritage. https://folklife.si.edu/magazine/cicada-folklore.

Myers, J. G. (1929). Insect singers: A natural history of the cicadas. George Routledge and Sons, Ltd.

[exploreneoh]

On a cool and sunny June day, I am paddling peacefully through miles of deciduous hardwood forest, contemplating the scenery and natural beauty surrounding me. I see great blue herons wading in the swift moving water searching for lunch and hear the rattle of a belted king fisher before he makes his killer descent into the crystalline waters below. I catch a glimpse of an osprey, its white underbelly circling ominously over head. Canada geese and mallards cruise lazily along side me. No, I’m not traversing through the Adirondacks or Acadia, I’m a few miles north of Akron on the Cuyahoga River in beautiful Northeast Ohio!

Last month, I felt the urge to more intimately connect with the Cuyahoga, the aquatic spirit-godmother of Northeast Ohio. For years I’ve hiked, run, and biked through its namesake valley and along its various tributaries, I’ve marveled at the stone structures it helped to create, and the cultural metropolises it helped to build. I absolutely love this river, which I consider to be an omnipresent maternal entity helping to guide us to a better future. When the river is healthy, we are too.

I’ve seen the Cuyahoga so many times at so many different locations, but kayaking upon it offered me a new perspective. The river takes you where it goes with utter disregard for your comfort or predetermined destination. I put-in in the Merriman Valley directly north of Akron’s Cascade Valley MetroPark and paddled eight miles north to the river access point under the Bolanz Road bridge in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park. During my trip, I saw a variety of wildlife and paddled easily through various class-one rapids. I had to dodge fallen trees (a particular sycamore north of the Ira Road bridge was somewhat challenging) and maneuver through the various twists and turns of the lower Cuyahoga river. The route took me near the Akron water treatment plant which has undergone extensive updates and expansions throughout the last few years (possible future post), at the behest of both state and federal governments. Despite my proximity, I did not detect any putrid smells from the plant. I barely knew it was even there.

Paddling your local river, whether it be the Cuyahoga, Chagrin, Grand, Black, Vermilion, Ashtabula, or Tuscarawas, fosters a greater connection between you, the resident, and the river with which you have a much deeper connection than you may initially assume. Your tap water likely comes from here and your waste water, upon treatment, likely returns here. The birds at your feeders may also spend time here. Other animals you may see in your yard might drink from the river’s banks or live in a habitat it provides. It is extremely important that we protect our rivers and the ecosystems along their banks. There’s currently a political movement of concerned citizens in Akron and Cuyahoga Falls working with their respective cities’ governments to develop a plan to preserve green space around the lower Cuyahoga and the Merriman Valley. Their arguments range from climate related ones, to infrastructure, tax, and health concerns. For more information, please visit preservethevalley.com.

Kayaking the Cuyahoga was a fabulous way to spend a random Friday afternoon in June. The river is a state designated water trail, meaning that all of its nearly 100 miles are recognized by Ohio as an important recreational area. Additional put-ins and take-outs are being constructed by the Cuyahoga Valley National Park and other local park systems to provide greater ease of access for kayakers. The Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railway will even transport your boat for you. The river is clean and represents much of our region’s history. Additionally, it is a perfect stage to intimately view the area’s diverse flora and fauna. Get out on to the Cuyahoga river and start paddling. I promise you won’t regret it.