Carol’s Column

1982 — the year of the mole cricket

SOMEONE said 1982 was the year of the dog. Well that's according to the ancient and hallowed Chinese calendar.

That may be fine in the East — but here in the West, well more north than west, in fact a mere block from Zoo Lake to be specific — it is the year of the mole cricket.

The New Year is hardly two weeks old and already the mole cricket has made his presence known with a frightening intensity.

At the beginning of the year we sat down to a happy family discussion to plan the strategy for this year.

A difficult thing indeed with a family of six who each do their own thing.

Discussion, as usual, was harmonious.

"If you don't all shut up, I'm leaving." I stated categorically. "What we need here is a little good, old-fashioned democracy. Which means I will do the talking and you will all listen."

It didn't take long to formulate a Lazar working plan for 1982. Three hours of talk and we had it.

I won't bore you with the ground plan which started off something like this:

At many crucial points in this house, there are situated laundry baskets. These laundry baskets are to be receptacles for all soiled clothing that accumulates in this household.

Dirty washing does not walk to the laundry basket unaided. Therefore each piece must be accompanied by its owner.

Who will then proceed to open the lid of the basket and throw in the dirty washing.

And so on.

The family responded with great enthusiasm. For two hours.

Then the rot set in.

But this was rot with a difference.

For example:

On the second day of 1982, I sprained my left big toe when I tripped over a pair of newly-expired jeans on the way to the bathroom.

"Why aren't these jeans in the washbasket? What's happened to our new plan of action?" I shrieked to anyone in the vicinity.

Many feet came running — including several neighbours from the surrounding area.

My son Barry was apologetic for they were his jeans.

"Ma — I'm sorry, I couldn't put them in the washbasket. It's been taken over."

Taken over? Had my mother-in-law moved in?

"There's a family of mole crickets living there, and gosh, one can't disturb a mole cricket."

We all peered into the basket.

Sure enough — nestling among the wicker ribbing and curled up in my French lace purple petticoat, was a family of mole crickets.

There must have been at least 10 of them.

"They've got to go," I shouted. Rather loudly under the circumstances.

"This house is not large enough for me and a family of mole crickets."

My children were shocked.

"Ma, you wouldn't think of evicting them. At the beginning of a new year."

"Just think of the poor baby mole crickets, so small and helpless. They need the laundry basket. It's their home."

My son Jamie was more explicit. "Ja, do you want me to think of you as a murderer or a mother?" He said.

So they stayed.

Now mole crickets are not known for their quiet habits. The noise from the basket was deafening.

We all took to wearing earplugs which made communication difficult.

There have been other drastic changes in our lifestyle.

Meal times are always late because the children are out food-gathering for the crickets.

The playroom has become a pantry for potential flying dinners.

The linen cupboard has been taken over as an incubation ward for hatching mole crickets.

And the original cricket family, has grown beyond belief and has — like any vigorous immigrant community, taken over all the resident laundry baskets.

But the finale came last night when I arrived home to discover the diningroom table crawling with mole crickets of every shape and size.

In their midst stood a massive chocolate cake.

"We're throwing a New Year party for the little creatures," said my daughter.

I couldn't speak. There were too many crickets around and I was terrified one would jump into my mouth.

Last night I came down to dinner wearing hobnailed boots.

Scrunch . . . things are looking up around here . . . scrunch.

It might . . . scrunch . . . be a Happy New Year after all.

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