Backbone of summer is broken

I can hear my father now. "The backbone of summer is broken," he always announced in mid-July when he heard katydids begin their annual stridulations.

Books tell us the male katydids make all the noise with "transparent drum-like structures at the base of their wings where the outer covers have rasps and ridges, the friction of which, when one rubs against the other as the wings are raised and lowered" produces the familiar call we hear on late summer and early autumn evenings. The call is received by other katydids through a particular place of hearing on the upper part of the front legs.

Scientists tell us the loud, shrill call of the male katydid can be heard distinctly for a quarter of a mile. While we who are accustomed to hearing it right outside our windows pay little attention to it when we're ready to go to sleep, visitors, especially children, from urban areas often find the loud and constant sound disturbing.

The females are quieter, responding to the males only with chirps, but with enough of them to keep the males communicating with apparent enthusiasm until the night is half over.

Dusk used to bring bull bats flying through the yard, ridding the premises of hundreds of varieties of insects and, a number of years ago, serving as objects for riflemen practicing their marksmanship.

Not bats at all

But bull bats are not bats at all. They're birds, nighthawks, and hundreds of varieties of insects, including the anopheles mosquito that transmitted malaria, have been proven to be food for them. Potato and cucumber beetles, boll weevils and various other pests have been food for the nighthawks, so it was never smart to kill them.

The nighthawks, or bull bats as we have known them locally, were a familiar part of our summer scene, but they're seldom seen now. Back in the days of open automobiles, though, they occasionally flew in, as one did on an occasion when my father was driving the car and an elderly passenger was on the front seat beside him. As we rounded a curve just this side of Saluda, a bull bat flew into the open car and landed against the face of the passenger, who announced with utter conviction, "Oh God, Doctor, I've swallowed a bat!"

Fortunately she hadn't quite done that and she was able to grab the bull bat and toss it well away from the car.

It's interesting how the four-legged visitors change over the years and we don't always know how it comes about. How, for example, and why did the coyotes find us when their natural habitat has been such a long way from here?

How have the bears become so bold - or so friendly - that they help themselves to the seeds in bird feeders hanging on patios? Personally I still prefer the box turtles I find crossing my driveway, and I don't mind at all stopping the car, getting out and carrying a turtle out of the road. Then there's a good enough supply of baby rabbits for one or more to be sitting in the tire track as though trying to make up its mind which side of the road is the better escape route.

Summer will be over too soon though. After all it's mid-July now, so the backbone of it is already broken.

Louise Bailey is a native of Henderson County and lives in Flat Rock. She is the author of several historical books on the people of Henderson County and writes from a lifelong interest in the history of the area.