There Are Times to Keep Your Mouth Closed. Today Was That Day for Me!

By Marc C. Whitt

We Kentuckians are a hearty bunch. We brave horse race traffic, unpredictable weather, and a pollen season that keeps a yellow dust on our cars from early spring to late summer causing, at times, nearly uncontrollable sneezing. But nothing—nothing—prepared me for what happened in my own backyard this weekend, courtesy of some rather excitable guests known as the Bourbon Brood.

Now, for the uninitiated, the "Bourbon Brood" is not the name of a bluegrass band - although they do make their own brand of music. No, this charming name refers to Brood XIV—a group of 17-year periodical cicadas currently invading much of Kentucky and parts of Tennessee like it’s their long-overdue family reunion… and we’re all invited.

Why “Bourbon Brood,” you ask? Because, much like Kentucky's bourbon, these critters spend 17 years in quiet, underground aging before making a dramatic and spirited appearance above ground. The only difference is that nobody’s lining up to sip on these.

After weeks of endless rain (one older neighbor swore he was heading to Lowe’s for lumber in case Ark II construction became necessary), the clouds parted on Saturday. Sunshine! Warmth! Birds chirping—wait, no. That was just the buzz of millions of cicadas revving up for another day of tree-shaking, mate-finding chaos.

Nonetheless, I saw my chance. Armed with determination and a pair of gardening gloves, I set out to tackle the weeds that had colonized the back of our house during monsoon season. A noble quest, I thought. A chance to show my beautiful wife, Jennifer, that her husband still had what it took to tame the wild green.

Turns out, the Bourbon Brood wasn’t fond of my landscaping ambitions. As I trimmed limbs and tugged at weeds, those little winged devils took it personally. They launched their protest in waves—buzzing my head like tiny helicopters, clinging to my arms like toddlers at daycare drop-off. Two even had the nerve to crawl down the back of my t-shirt. I performed a flailing dance that surely terrified the neighbor’s cat and possibly knocked a satellite out of orbit.

But I pressed on.

I imagined Jennifer’s face when she saw the finished work—how she'd marvel at the clean edges and trimmed bushes. Maybe she’d even break out the good lemonade. With the end in sight and sweat stinging my eyes, I leaned back against the fence to admire my progress, take a deep breath, and—

WHAM.

A kamikaze cicada dove straight into my mouth.

I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say there was flailing, coughing, and what might be described as an emergency interpretive dance. Somewhere between Oh no! and What is happening?!, my breakfast and this bug collided in a moment that will haunt me for at least another 17 years.

As I stood there, heaving and humbled, one phrase echoed through my head:

There are times to keep your mouth closed. Today was that day.

So, dear reader, take it from someone who’s been up close and far too personal with the Bourbon Brood—yard work can wait. Cicadas have waited 17 years to scream and fly and stick to every surface. They’re not backing down for your hedge clippers.

In the meantime, if you must go outside, do what the smart folks do: wear a hat, keep your shirt tucked in, and for the love of all things holy…

Keep. Your. Mouth. Shut.

Bon appétit.

Copyright (c) 2025 Marc C. Whitt