OPINION | MIKE MASTERSON: Newport’s plague


File this under News of the Weird.

It was a night in 1972 that no one who experienced it will ever forget. My phone rang shortly after 10 p.m. on a warm summer's evening in Newport. As we know, that's usually never a good sign.

An excited caller was practically breathless as he tried explaining that the town had suddenly been invaded by millions and millions of crickets in a plague of biblical proportion.

Yep, you read that correctly, large black crickets. Big, plump Mormon crickets, to be precise, about twice the size of Pinocchio's famous shoulder-side adviser.

"Just go outside. You'll see them blanketing the yards and streets and buildings. Heck, there must be 100 million or more!" he shouted. "Darnedest thing I've ever seen!"

So I opened the door and looked into the street. Sure enough, he wasn't exaggerating. The ground and pavement were black and thick with these insects that had ridden prevailing breezes long enough to descend upon this eastern Arkansas city in a plague unseen for a long time in any region across our state.

I was still fairly new to Newport at age 26 after arriving in 1971 to become news editor of the Newport Daily Independent. That meant on this night (and being the official newsperson in town long before social media) I had to grab a camera and go to work.

Once in my car, I found myself steering and braking across the pavement akin to driving on ice, as the bugs squished by the thousands beneath the tires.

It was difficult to keep from swerving back and forth as I headed for downtown five blocks away. The airborne insects flashed in sheets like snowflakes in the headlights during a blizzard. At one point while turning a corner, I momentarily lost control and spun around 180 degrees, coming to stop only a foot from a car parked along the street.

At the paper, I photographed sheets of the pervasive insects attaching themselves to the outer walls of every building surrounding me. They crunched beneath my feet and continually fluttered into my face as I made my way along the street.

The historic event in the river city would come to be known as "The Night of the Crickets."

The invaders stayed throughout the night. By sunrise, they mercifully had taken flight on morning breezes, leaving behind only piles of icky mess covering the street and sidewalks.

They had departed as suddenly as they had arrived.

I later read that in 2017, Arlington, Ore., experienced its largest Mormon cricket outbreak since the 1940s. "The roads were 'greasy' with the squashed entrails of the huge insects, which damaged nearby wheat crops," the Associated Press reported. Rancher Skye Krebs was quoted saying the invasion had been "truly biblical."

He already knew

Jerry Bach of Hot Springs Village shared a GodNod the other day that should make every reader think.

"My Dad passed away at 77 in '88. Some time in 1990 I had a dream that I was suddenly standing next to my Dad. He was sitting, by himself, at a bar drinking a beer. The place was lit up in extremely bright light and he was the only person I could see.

"I asked him how he was doing, and he just smiled and nodded his head. Then he said, 'Do you see who is sitting over there?' He pointed to a table about 20 feet away. I looked, and sitting at the table was my 100-year-old grandmother who was living in a nursing home in East Tawas, Mich.

"I asked my dad, 'What is she doing here?' He just smiled.

"I woke up. Showered and got dressed to go to work. When I arrived, my phone was ringing. It was my sister Jean in East Tawas. She said, 'Jer, I have bad news to tell you. Nana passed away last night.'

"I said, 'I know.' Thanks for listening, Mike."

Water and kids

Each year as heat envelops us and the cool waters of streams and pools beckon, I remind readers with small children in their care that only a moment's inattention can become a matter of life or death, because I know.

So many such tragedies in the water can be avoided with awareness and common sense.

My afternoon of terror occurred in Rancho Bernardo, Calif., where I'd moved in 1980 with the family, including 2-year-old Anna and son Brandon, 10, to report for the Los Angeles Times.

We were visiting a neighbor's home for a grill-out and swim in their in-ground pool. The couple had a son and a daughter of the same ages, which kept them occupied while the adults visited.

I'd been seated on the patio overlooking the shallow end of the pool, watching the boys and the other father playing water volleyball on the chest-deep side. Anna was perched on the concrete near the shallow end, watching and laughing.

A voice from inside shouted for help carrying some food to the patio. Anna was doing fine, sitting poolside in full view of the other father and both boys. Surely he'd watch her. I'd only be away for a minute.

Through the kitchen's open window we could hear the hoots from the pool. Nothing seemed out of place.

Less than three minutes later I stepped back outside carrying a bowl and immediately scanned the area for Anna. The boisterous game was continuing a few feet away. Everything seemed as it had been moments earlier.

Yet where was Anna? She'd just been sitting right there, near the corner.

With the sun now set, underwater lights had kicked on. They cast a shimmering glow that made it difficult to detect anything inside the pool. Then my searching gaze focused on a twirling motion and what appeared to be a shadow from beneath in the shallow end. From my angle, the surface disturbance looked like just ripples. But what was causing them?

Oh, my God. It was Anna's tiny fingertips circling the top of the water!

I dove in and grabbed her, hoisting her limp body onto the concrete poolside. She was unconscious. Not breathing. No, no! My thoughts pinballed in panic.

Do I quickly roll her onto her side? No, wait, maybe onto her stomach. Yes. Force the water out, and fast, hurry!

By this point, the noise of play had stopped. Everyone was hovering over us, including the wives who'd heard my shouts from inside. I remember their cries of anguish as I continued working to save Anna.

How could this have happened so quickly? And with three people so close by in the same pool? How? Why did I ever go inside?

The questions exploded one after another as I continued pushing gently on Anna's fragile back while applying CPR. Yet she remained unresponsive.

"Please, God, don't let our little girl die tonight!" My voice was cracking.

Nearly a minute passed. She remained unresponsive. Then suddenly--a ray of light in such crushing darkness. She coughed softly at first. A stream of water poured from her mouth, followed by another, and another. She began gasping for breath and coughing uncontrollably. I started shedding the kind of tears only a stunned father who, with higher help, had faced down the monster of profound loss could release.

Anna sputtered a while longer and had fully recovered within an hour. She was even back to playing as if nothing had happened.

To this day when Anna and I speak of that evening, my voice still cracks and I feel moisture begin to bead at the corners of both eyes. Post-traumatic stress, perhaps.

My daughter, who would grow into a competitive swimmer in childhood and is now a retired Navy chief, says all she recalls from that night is a bright glow encircling her.

Please let my experience be a sincere warning to never turn your back or assume that everything is fine when your child is in or near the water. Never.

Now go out into the world and treat everyone you meet exactly like you want them to treat you.

Mike Masterson is a longtime Arkansas journalist, was editor of three Arkansas dailies and headed the master's journalism program at Ohio State University. Email him at [email protected].


Upcoming Events