Camel crickets keep falling into my bathtub-shower during the coldest part of winter. Once there, they hop and hop, but they can’t scale the steep, slippery walls that tower above them.
Sometimes these creatures are small. Other times they are mature and fat. According to my books, camel crickets can neither hear nor make sounds. They compensate for being deaf and dumb by having unusually long and sensitive antennae, and they are good jumpers.
And, young or old, they are obsessed with my smooth, white tub. They creep into the bathroom at night, mount the wooden tub-surround, and slip through the opening between the sliding shower doors. In the morning, I have to capture them and scoop them out, take them to the greenhouse, and set them free in the geraniums or begonias.
What they are looking for who can tell? For the most part, camel crickets live in basements. They like the damp darkness of caves. The crickets I encounter probably breed in the crawl space under my house and find their way upstairs in the fall and winter seeking warmth.
But that is obviously not everything to know about them. Like the rest of us, they must have secret passions. They have evolved to succeed in a gloomy habitat, but one in which they are safe and nimble. What draws them to the sleek and fatal receptacle that will not allow their return? Why do they rashly throw their advantage away to explore the treacherous, shining bathtub in which they are helpless?
Are they are drawn to the whiteness of the porcelain like moths to the light? Does the bright chasm in the black night promise some forbidden pleasure? Is my tub the great and terrible temptation of camel crickets? Whatever their sin, I feel a certain comradeship with them. They should know better, but they can’t help themselves. Their visitations confirm something I know about myself; I share some weakness with them, some deficiency of discretion, and neither they nor I know how to fix the flaw.
Bill Felker