“Dear Resident Cricket.” That’s how the note began. “After weeks of your cheerful little ‘songs of praise’ down there in the hinterlands (i.e., the basement), I can hardly remember my name. I think Obama is president, but it may be Reagan. Or George ‘Not W’ Bush.” I was getting good and warmed up.
“If it were not for your racket, it is entirely possible that I could have written the next great American novel by now, but no. That will have to wait until you’ve ‘embraced the season of death’ as I’m often advising and have found yourself on the bottom of Mr. Schrock’s slipper. I am left with but one thing to say: Die! Die! Die! Signed, The Frazzled Writer.”
It’s been going on for weeks. From somewhere below my feet, the erstwhile Schrock cricket has been busy day and night, and he’s been loud about his business. When I shared this angst with my friends, they allowed as how some of his cousins had visited them. So far, they reported, the crafty little boogers had managed to avoid ending up on the bottom of a shoe, a slipper or on a rolled-up newspaper.
THANKFULLY, however, there’s another little critter at our house who continues to bring happiness and joy just by being. He’s such a happy waker-upper that sometimes we call him the Cheerful Little Cricket for all the cheerful chirping he does of a morning.
It astounds me, still, that he’s ours. We sure hadn’t planned on him coming. We hadn’t. But lucky us and happy day. That’s how we feel about it now.
Why, just the other night, I was standing at the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth with a whale toothbrush. There he stood in his jammies with the blue eyes he got from his dad. It hit me again, so I said to him, this child of mine, “You’re a joy and a delight and a treat. You’re a blessing to other people!”
And all matter of fact, he said, “Uh-huh,” through a mouthful of bubbles and bristles as though he’d heard it a thousand times.