GRASSHOPPER SUMMER

Peg Nichols

Summer, 1935.

The year the grasshoppers came to town.

The loathsome creatures arrived by the millions. They hopped from rural Johnson County into urban Kansas City without any regard for the state line. They hitched rides on the undercarriages of vehicles that crossed the Inter-City Bridge. They floated down the Kaw to the Missouri on boats and barges.

On a shimmery, sweltering Sunday morning in August at the height of the invasion, my Grandmother corralled me, along with my younger cousin, Ralph, for a long streetcar jaunt to her midtown church.

My pesky cousin and I were infrequent visitors at Grandmother’s church; I was vastly relieved when Ralph was ushered into a different Sunday School classroom.

I couldn’t escape him on our trip home. On the first leg, Grandmother let me take the window seat. Rambunctious Ralph had the entire bench in front of us to himself.

Rashly, I rested my arm on the sill of the open window. Within seconds, a huge grasshopper landed on my vulnerable forearm.

Immobilized by fear and distaste, the only thing I could move was my mouth. I squealed. Loudly. Ever in motion, Ralph swooped across the back of his seat and captured the grasshopper between his index finger and his thumb.

Wary, Grandmother urged Ralph to get rid of the insect. Realizing that was probably a futile admonishment, she sternly ordered him not to pull off the grasshopper’s legs. Every time her eyes drifted to something in the passing landscape, Ralph threatened to throw the ugly, wriggling green creature at my face.

He still had a firm grip on the grasshopper when we got off at our transfer corner.

On Sundays, the streetcars were scarce. Grandmother tried to stand in the shadow of an overhead street sign. Restless, I wandered up and down the sidewalk, scrupulously staying away from the curb, beyond which dozens of grasshoppers had congregated in the gutters.

More energetic grasshoppers were throwing themselves against the solid walls of the businesses which lined the street. The sun reflected mercilessly against the plate-glass windows of the business building at the corner.

Still refusing to touch the insects, I tried to somehow get rid of them when they landed on my clothing.

Ralph had given up trying to tease me, and was playing a game of his own invention, which consisted of running at the window on a slant and trapping grasshoppers against the glass.

Grandmother kept her eyes strained to a point in the distance, searching in vain for the streetcar that never seemed to arrive. I suspect she was grateful that for the moment Ralph and I were not engaged in tormenting each other.

Eventually remembering her grandmotherly responsibilities, she turned her attention to Ralph and asked him what he was doing.

“Catching grasshoppers.”

There was hesitation in her voice when she asked him what he was doing with the grasshoppers.

“Putting them in here,” he sang out.

Ralph had just snagged another unfortunate insect. In one continuous motion, he lifted the narrow brass lid on the lower wooden portion of the business front door and deposited his catch through the mail slot.

Grandmother’s mouth fell open. Shielding her eyes with the palms of her hands, she tried to peer inside the business. Mimicking her motions, I stood next to her, my nose pressed against the glass.

It was not a pretty sight. Grasshoppers were jumping merrily over every surface – desks, office chairs, manila folders left lying about, pencil holders, telephone handsets. Some had fallen into waste baskets, but were very easily catapulting up into the air again.

With our backs to the street, we did not notice the arrival of the streetcar until the driver clanged the bell. Her expression grim, Grandmother took Ralph’s hand and pulled him up the short steps. We rode home in silence.

She never scolded either one of us. I had the impression that she thought she had failed us: a good grandmother would have issued the warning that mannerly children do not go around stuffing grasshoppers into mail slots.

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