Bobby and the Monster Crickets

One night many years ago, I went to tuck in my five-year-old son, Bobby, at bedtime. I found him completely covered by his lightweight, security blanket which was much worn after several years of being dragged around and repeatedly laundered. Nothing showed but a lump in the bed.

“Hey, Bobby, why are you all covered up?” I asked. “It’s still very warm outside.”

It was August, and all the windows were open to lure a passing breeze into the house. This was before we could afford central air-conditioning. We did have a window fan that pulled outside air inside.

“Shut the window, Daddy,” came Bobby’s plaintive plea from under the blanket.

“It’s summertime. We leave the windows open in summer. Too hot in here.”

“You gotta shut the window,” he said lifting up the blanket so I could see his face, beads of perspiration over his lips. Did I detect a quiver of those lips?

“Bobby, what’s going on? Did you have a bad dream before I came into your bedroom?”

“It’s not a dream. It’s real. I can hear 'em, and they’re coming to get me. David said so.”

Aha, I thought, David said so. David was my nephew who lived next door. He was three years older than Bobby and loved to tease his younger cousin.

“Just what was it that David said?” I asked.

“The monster crickets. They’ll eat you alive.”

Monster crickets? What in the world was David up to now?

“And where are these monsters?” I asked.

“Down by the creek.”

We lived not far from a small creek that ran behind our subdivision. Even in a heavy rain, the water in the creek bed was never more than a few inches deep. Through the years, willows and other trees and shrubs had grown up along its banks. For our subdivision, it was a pleasant, natural barrier hiding the main thoroughfare a block away. For neighborhood kids, it was an adventure to wander along the creek in that urban “wilderness.”

“Bobby, I’ve lived next to that creek for a long time before you were born. Before David was born. I never saw any monster crickets.”

“David said you can’t see ’em, but you can hear ’em. I can hear ’em."

“You can hear them?”

“I hear 'em now. Shut the window, Daddy, please.”

I listened but all I could hear were the usual sounds of crickets chirping in the evening.

“That’s it. They’re coming to eat us up. David said so,” Bobby cried and pulled the blanket back over his head.

How could a mere father compete with wise cousin, David?

“It’s only the sound that crickets make,” I said, knowing that my comforting words could in no way dispel the image David had planted. I had to do something, but what?

“Bobby, for tonight, I will shut and lock your window. No monster cricket can get through that, I promise. You won’t need to cover up. And for tonight, if you have a bad dream, you can come into our bedroom. Tomorrow, we’ll have a talk about monsters and crickets.”

I left his bedroom door open and walked into the living room where wife Marilyn was watching a re-run of the old horror movie, Frankenstein, with Boris Karloff as the monster.

“Did this old movie ever scare you when you first saw it?” she asked. “It scared the blazes out of me when I was a kid. Now it strikes me as so much weird fun.”

“Kids get scared of the strangest things. Especially if it’s nephew David who makes it up,” I answered and then explained the crisis with Bobby in his bedroom. “You’re the nature lover in the family. What’s the scientific name for fear of crickets?” I asked her.

“Smarty. I happen to know that. The Latin name for crickets is Gryllinae and Phobia for fear of. Gryllinaephobia.” She laughed, and then said, “I think I have just the thing to counter David’s monster cricket.”

She rose, went to the book case, rummaged around and pulled out an old, illustrated book. “This should do it.”

I took it and looked at the colorfully illustrated page she showed me.

“I think you have the answer, love,” I said. “Now let’s watch the end of old Frankenstein and then hit the hay, as they say.”

The next morning, I discovered my little son, wrapped in his blanket, sound asleep on the carpeting next to our bed. Poor kid, I thought, couldn’t get David’s scary image out of his mind but didn’t want to wake up old Dad.

I gently shook him awake. “Morning, Bobby. Time to get up and get ready for breakfast, and then we have your little league game.”

The rest of that day, I monitored Bobby’s actions and reactions, but it was as if the incident of the evening before never happened. He loved little league softball. It was coach-pitch. He’d already graduated from T-ball. There was no scaring him when it came to sports.

When it was bedtime, I noticed him listening carefully to the sounds of the evening and could see him become restless. He reached for his security blanket. The only time he really clung to it now was at bedtime since it had been banned in Kindergarten. Time to wean him away from that, I thought, and from monstrous, people-eating crickets.

“Close the window, Dad,” he said climbing into bed.

It was about 85-degrees outside and muggy and even warmer inside.

“Too hot, tonight, Bobby,” I said.

“But Daddy…” he began. I could see the panic in his expression.

“Bobby, David was just joshing you when he said there were monster crickets,” I began. “He wanted to scare you. There are no monster crickets, but there are crickets who do make sounds in the night and sometimes in the daytime, too. And the sound that you thought was so scary is made by friendly little creatures. Would you like to see one of them?”

“It’s not scary?”

“Nope, take a look.”

I opened the book I was carrying, and flipped the pages to the one I had marked.

“Does this cricket look scary to you?”

He took the book and stared at the illustration I pointed out.

“That’s a cricket?” he asked.

“Yep, and how big do you think he is?

“Big as me?”

“Nope. See this nickel?” I showed him the coin I pulled from my pocket. “A cricket is no bigger across than this, even as small as a dime.”

“That’s really little,” he said.

“Yes and they love to sing. What you hear now is a chorus of them singing to each other. But they’re so tiny, it sounds like chirps. Listen.”

I watched him as he slowly put his security blanket down and listened intently to the sounds of the evening.

“And they look like this?” he asked pointing to the book in his hands.

“That’s one of them, probably the most famous one,” I said smiling. “Want to know his name?”

“He’s got a name?”

I smiled a little wider looking at the surprise in Bobby’s expression replacing the fearful look he’d had earlier.

“Yep, his name is Jiminy Cricket. Now, does he look scary to you?”

“No way,” Bobby said, looking down at the page. “But do crickets wear clothes like…Jiminy?”

“Not really,” I said. “Jiminy was dressed up for a movie he was in. And this is a book made from that movie by Disney. It’s called Pinocchio, and it was one of Mom's favorite bedtime stories when she was little. Would you like me to read this book to you?"

“Will you?”

“Sure,” I said turning to the first page.

“Jiminy Cricket,” Bobby said. “Wait 'til I tell David he’s a big fat liar.”

“Oh, let him have his little laugh. But from now on, don’t believe everything David tells you. Now, you still want me to close the window?”

“It’s okay, Dad. You can leave it open.”

I sat on the edge of the bed and began to read. When I looked up, Bobby was sound asleep, the security blanket pushed down to the end of the bed. I leaned over and kissed his forehead.

The battle of the monster crickets had been won. Maybe, I thought, if Disney had made a movie about June bugs, I wouldn’t hate it so much even now when they come around. I walked out of Bobby's room, closing the door behind me.

The End

This story is based on a true incident in my son Bob’s young life and how Jiminy Cricket solved his fear of kid-eating, monster crickets. Please visit my website, https://www.EdFarberAuthor.com for more information on me, my current books, and those in the works. Thanks for reading my story.