Even though I live in the country, during the latter part of the summer when it’s cool enough to sleep with the windows open, I can hear the neighbors arguing as I go to bed. Their back-and-forth bickering is full of baseless accusations – a real “he said, she said” kind of thing. It doesn’t keep me awake, but I wish they’d resolve their conflict. I want to know if Katy is guilty or not, and what it is that she supposedly did.
If you’ve never seen a katydid, that’s not surprising, as they are active mainly at night. But you might have heard them, especially if your neighborhood is planted with a few trees, where they like to hang out. Though their calls can vary by region, katydids typically make an eight-pulse call, broken into three phrases. To many people it sounds like “Ka-ty-did, she did-n’t, she-did.” I suppose it’s more a case of arguing with themselves (shades of Gollum in that respect), but when one individual makes this accusation, another will echo it from a distance away, so it sounds much like a conversation.
<iframe width=”560″ height=”315″ src=”https://www.youtube.com/embed/Tmc44lGPgMg?si=YrVXGuKo6pq9AH1L” title=”YouTube video player” frameborder=”0″ allow=”accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share” referrerpolicy=”strict-origin-when-cross-origin” allowfullscreen></iframe>
Katydid sounds (Uploaded to YouTube by Jeep Creep)
In most insect species, the males are the ones who make noise or otherwise put on a show to attract mates, and indeed it’s Mr. Katydid that does the Katy-did, no-she-didn’t routine. What’s unusual is that Ms. Katydid also calls, though her response is a one-note tick, which probably translates to “Humph,” as I’m sure she gets exasperated by her suitor’s circular arguments.
Katydids are native to just about everywhere on the planet but Antarctica — more than 6,000 species in all — with the greatest diversity found in tropical rainforests. The United States is home to around 200 species. The Southeast has more katydid species than other parts of the country, but there are plenty to go around. Even though many species live in trees, some have adapted to less-hospitable conditions, like hot, arid parts of the Southwest.
Similar in size and shape to their cousins the grasshoppers, katydids stand out mainly because of their long, wispy antennae and their typically bright green color. If you’ve ever picked up grasshoppers as a kid, you know they’re as tough as they look. These feisty, well-built critters will spit goo on you and are apt to bite you as well. But the katydids I’ve seen in the New England area look more frail, with their gossamer antennae and the translucent bodies of the juvenile stages.
Speaking of breakable, I just learned about the lichen katydid, a bizarrely delicate, see-through insect from northwestern South America. It is so improbably fragile that it has been described as having been crocheted. Most katydids are green to blend in with tree leaves or other vegetation. These katydids went a step further to mimic lichens, which are a symbiotic amalgam of part fungi and part algae that took a likin’ to each other. They grow on trees, but do not harm them, as lichens get all their food from the sun. In these short videos of lichen katydids, they blend in so well with actual lichens that you probably can’t see them until they move.
I didn’t realize that many species of katydids live in trees until I stayed a few weeks in a house built into a steep hillside. The screens in the front bedrooms, which were essentially in the treetops, were swarmed by these green insects on summer nights. Although they feed on many types of plants, including trees, katydids in most areas are not considered pests. One exception is the Mormon cricket, a type of katydid that can devastate crops in western states when their populations surge upward. Katydids play an important role in the food web, and are a key source of protein for many birds and other small animals.
Not all insects make “music” the same way. Cicadas, among the noisiest out there, use a Rube Goldberg-like scheme that’s almost too complicated to believe. Katydids went for a simpler plan. Like crickets, they rub their front pair of wings, or forewings, together (they have two sets of wings), known as stridulation. to create their quarrelsome calls. Unlike crickets, whose calls serve as a pretty accurate thermometer, katydids can’t tell you the temperature.
An old Abenaki friend told me that katydids begin calling about six weeks before the first frost; this way one can tell whether or not it will be a late fall. I don’t know if such lore originated with indigenous peoples (which seems logical), but it has become a widespread belief. For a while I used to mark on the calendar when the first katydid called, and in my scientifically-unsound sample, the katydids were correct (i.e., Katy did) within a day or two.
Recently I came across a story, attributed to the Cherokee, in which a hunter mocked a katydid for its short lifespan, and the katydid replied by predicting the hunter’s death that night, which came to pass. It’s not clear if the katydid caused this death or merely foretold it, but I’m not taking any chances. You’ll never catch me mocking a katydid. Being sixty-something is enough to make me aware of my mortality. I hope to enjoy katydid song for many summers to come, but in the event I’m faced with a serious health crisis, I won’t accuse them of having a hand in it.
Become a Saturday Evening Post member and enjoy unlimited access. Subscribe now
