By Bill Napper
Previously: In Part 1, we introduced the magic of Brood XIV cicadas—their 17-year lifecycle, harmless nature, and century-long history at Bernheim Forest.
The First Written Account of Brood XIV
The earliest written record of what was likely Brood XIV dates back to May 1634 at Plymouth Colony. Governor William Bradford described the event in vivid detail:
“There was such a quantity of a great sort of flies like for bigness to wasps or bumblebees, which came out of holes in the ground and replenished all the wood… and soon made such a constant yelling noise… as ready to deaf the hearers.”
Although documented accounts are rare, Indigenous peoples recognized and incorporated these predictable 17-year cycles into their cultural knowledge and practices long before European settlers arrived.
Whispers of a Winged Plague: Cicadas and Early American Fears
Early colonists viewed cicadas with suspicion and fear. Their concern stemmed from the insects’ overwhelming numbers—potentially in the billions—and the mistaken belief that they posed a threat to local crops.
These fears were fueled by European memories of true locust plagues. Colonists often misidentified periodical cicadas as “black locusts,” believing a devastating plague had followed them across the Atlantic. In reality, cicadas are not related to locusts and do not cause widespread destruction.
Newspapers from the 18th and 19th centuries echoed these fears, with headlines like:
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“Swarms of strange insects and the mischief done by them”
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“Wherever they appear… there is evil without remedy” (1855)
Despite the exaggeration, cicadas were often misunderstood rather than truly harmful.
Headline Horrors: How Cicadas Became Clickbait Through the Centuries
This sensationalism didn’t stop with early settlers. Kentucky newspapers in the 20th and 21st centuries used similarly dramatic headlines to spark fear:
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“Trees Attacked by 17-Year Locust Horde” (1957)
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“Cicada Invasion Underway” (1970)
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“Kentuckiana Girds for Cicada Plague” (1974)
Words like “attacked,” “invasion,” and “swarm” were chosen to grab attention, despite the minimal actual threat. This pattern reflects a long-standing history of fear and misunderstanding surrounding periodical cicadas.
Daily Activities: A Symphony of Survival
Imagine spending almost two decades underground, only to burst into the moonlight for the grand finale of your life—that’s the cicada’s wild schedule. On a warm spring night, when the dirt is about 64°F, thousands of young cicadas, called nymphs, dig their way out. It’s a bit of a puzzle how they even know it’s nighttime since they’ve lived in darkness for so long!
These nymphs are a bit clumsy on the surface. Their powerful front legs, called fossorial legs, are perfect for digging tunnels but not so great for walking on land. They stumble toward the nearest tree or tall plant. Once they climb up and get a good grip, something amazing happens. Their skin splits open down the back—like unzipping their very own backs—and slowly, a soft, pale adult cicada wiggles out. At this point, they look more like gummy bugs than insects!
This fresh, just-out-of-its-skin stage is called the teneral stage. The new adult hangs upside down, very weak, with soft legs and wrinkly wings. Over the next few hours, hemolymph—the insect version of blood—flows into their wing veins, causing the wings to slowly spread out like tiny leaves unfurling. At the same time, their soft bodies begin to harden and darken, thanks to melanin—the same pigment that gives human skin and hair their color. By sunrise, the once-squishy cicada is fully transformed: black-bodied, red-eyed, and sporting vivid orange wing veins. It’s now ready for its first flight, leaving behind a brittle, empty shell called an exuvia.
With their new wings and grown-up look, cicadas head up into the trees—and that’s when the real party begins. For the next few weeks, the forest becomes a giant amphitheater. Male cicadas sing their loud, buzzy love songs using special vibrating membranes called tymbals. The sound is so powerful it can rival a lawnmower! This buzzing chorus builds during the daylight hours and fades at night, with the loudest activity typically peaking from late morning to mid-afternoon. Visitors to Bernheim during this time will notice the daily rhythm of their calls rising and falling with the sun.
Cicadas aren’t the best fliers—they often take off with great ambition only to land a few feet away, sometimes bumping gently into people. If one lands on you, just smile and consider it a cicada kiss!
When a female hears a song she likes, she’ll fly over to meet her match. After mating, she sets about laying 300 to 400 tiny eggs in small slits she carves into tree twigs. A few weeks later, the eggs hatch and tiny, ant-sized nymphs emerge. These little adventurers drop to the ground, dig into the soil, and vanish for the next 17 years. Just like that, the adults’ brief moment above ground ends—but the next generation is already beginning its own long, hidden chapter right beneath our feet.
Cicadas: Connecting Generations Through Time
The predictable, large-scale emergence of cicadas has cemented their place in folklore as symbols of renewal, rebirth, and even immortality. For some cultures, their rhythmic presence signifies good luck or prosperity. Beyond symbolism, these natural events become significant milestones, weaving a common thread through generations.
The regular reappearance of cicadas has made them enduring symbols of rebirth, renewal, and even immortality. Many cultures view their emergences as signs of prosperity or good luck.
These events also act as generational touchpoints. Families who remember the cicadas of 1974, 1991, or 2008 can share stories with children experiencing their first emergence in 2025. This shared wonder becomes part of a living oral history, passed down across time.
Children who marvel at cicadas this year may one day recount their own memories to future generations during the next emergences: 2042, 2059, 2076, and even 2093.
Mostly Harmless to Plants
Good news for your garden: Cicadas are not locusts, and they do not eat leaves or plant foliage.
Adult cicadas feed on tree sap by tapping into the xylem—the water-transporting tissue—of trees. Their most noticeable impact comes from egg-laying. Females carve small slits into twigs to deposit eggs, which can cause minor damage to young or newly planted trees. This usually results in flagging, where twig tips may wilt or break off—a natural form of light pruning that mature trees typically tolerate well.
Nymphs feed on root sap underground but rarely cause long-term harm to healthy, established trees. Female cicadas instinctively select strong hosts that can support their offspring over the next 17 years.
Exceptions exist. Trees under two inches in diameter, fruit trees, or already-stressed ornamentals may suffer more from egg-laying. In these cases, covering branches with fine netting during the brief oviposition period is a smart, environmentally friendly solution.
But for most plants and trees, the cicada emergence is a short-lived spectacle, not a lasting threat.
Coming Up in the Final Part: We’ll explore the ecological benefits of cicadas, the scientific mystery behind their 17-year disappearing act, and reflect on what makes this natural event so extraordinary, especially at Bernheim.
