I was headed for gas and coffee around 7:15 this past Sunday morning. The roadsides and many of the rooftops were glistening white. Not a killing frost by any means, but the first fall frost of the new millennium.

The minute I saw the frost, I was taken back in time. It was the first of August, my wife and I lay in the bed with the window open. The ceiling fan moved the August night air around the room and from the woods surrounding the house came that familiar refrain: Katy did — Katy didn’t; Katy did — Katy didn’t.

“Summer’s almost over,” I told my wife.

“What are you talking about,” she asked, kicking the covers off.

“That’s the first katydid of the season. The old-timers will tell you it’s six weeks to the first frost,” I said.

We did a quick calculation and determined six weeks would be mid-September. “Well, that’s not unheard of in the mountains,” I said, and I didn’t give it anymore thought till this past Sunday.

The common katydid of the Southern Appalachians is a large (3 inch) winged, green insect resembling a grasshopper in appearance. It is actually more closely related to crickets.

Katydids are in the order Orthoptera and family Tettigoniidae. They are primarily nocturnal. They have long antennae, two or three times their body length. The antennae are covered with sensory receptors which allow the creatures to find their way around in the dark.

Did Katy, or didn’t she? One tale describes Katy as a young woman who fell in love with a gentleman who rejected her for her sister. The two married and on their honeymoon were found poisoned in their wedding bed. The insects began debating whether or not Katy did it.

It is the male that asks the question. The male sings or stridulates by rubbing its forewings together. The stridulation is how the male advertises for a mate.

Katydids mate in late summer and females generally lay their eggs in the bark of trees. The eggs overwinter and hatch in late spring or early summer. The nymph which emerges looks like a miniature katydid with small wings. It takes the katydid a couple of months and about five molts to reach maturity. There are around 4,000 species of katydids in the world. The greatest number and variety of species live in the Amazonian rainforest.

Like most cold blooded insects katydids rejoice in the heat of summer. The warmer it is the longer and more strident the crooning. Some say you can tell the temperature by listening to the katydid’s song: Kay...teee...did...it = 78°F; Kay...tee...didn’t = 74°F; Kay...tee...did = 70°F; Kate...didn’t = 66°F; Kay...te = 62°F; Katy = 58°F.

There is so much folklore associated with weather prognostication that it’s hard to ferret out what may have merit and what may be fancy. I watched woolly worms for a few winters when I first moved to the Appalachians and decided they were no more accurate than the meteorologists on television.

Was Sunday’s frost a coincidence? I don’t know, but I’m making a mental note — another katydid forecast calls for the first killing frost three months from the first summer song. That would be the second week in November.

(Don Hendershot can be reached at don@smokymountainnews.com)

 

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