We were lying in bed the other night – I peacefully reading my book, when Herself spotted a “bug on the ceiling”. It turned out to be a small moth. I’m thinking “no big deal, it will fly away.” My wife, on the other hand, foresees an Alfred Hitchcock ending in which that moth will give a signal and legions of moths will descend on her. While I’ve never heard of moths actually attacking humans, particularly as they have only what, one nerve cell and no brain? So, the chances are pretty slim that they’ll be planning an attack on her in the night, but no matter – it could happen. I sprang into action, going in search of a swatter. The moth thoughtfully, and unlike most other insects I’ve encountered, stayed in place until I could return and miss it with a truly vibrant swipe. It wisely flew off and is most likely still hiding behind a bureau wondering what all the fuss was about.
On a recent drive, we were reminiscing about our experiences at a lake not far from our childhood homes. Her parents owned a cottage, while we visited friends at the other end. We spoke about seeing the sunfish as we swam. I mentioned that they’d touch your toes if you stood in one place for long. She responded that “I’d be out of there so fast if anything touched my toes or anything else.” Jane Goodall, she’s not. She’s always had, not a fear really, but an intense dislike for nature. At our last house, when we had a pool installed, we also had to have a carpenter come and build an extended deck to the pool so that any interactions with nature could be kept to a minimum. Few if any of her ventures into the natural world ended well. One morning, we found a small rabbit chomping blissfully on something in the front yard. Herself, wanting to make a contribution as well as perpetuate a stereotype, got a carrot from the refrigerator and came out onto the front porch. She attempted to launch the carrot in the direction of the bunny, only to bonk it squarely on the head. Dazed and bewildered, the rabbit staggered off into the bushes. I half expected at some point to see it coming back up the driveway, accompanied by its bunny attorney in a top hat and carrying a tiny briefcase. That house was on a cul-de-sac called Ballard View Circle. Someone asked her once what “a ballard” was. She answered that it was a pond. A follow up question inquired if the pond was pretty. She was forced to admit that she’d never actually seen it. In all fairness, it was a good hundred yards or so from the house, and there were trees in the way.
Mice used to venture into this house from time to time, so I’d set out traps for them. On one occasion, our daughter, inheriting her mother’s powerful nature instincts, came home from school one day not long after we’d moved in and found a mouse dead in a trap. She responded reasonably by going upstairs to her room and constructing something not unlike the barricade in Les Miz until one of us came home. She also took issue with the tree toads that chirped merrily at night, disrupting her sleep and causing enormous anxiety. Years later, after we’d moved to a condo, a field mouse got into the living room where Herself was watching tv. She waited in extreme terror – rather like one of those baby-sitting horror movies – until it found its way to the cellar door and went off into the basement. I came home to find towels stuffed under the basement door. Calls for backup had gone out far and wide – to our daughter in DC, who responded “from this distance, you want me to do what exactly?” and to her father in Florida, who was equally comforting but telling her that the mouse was unlikely to carry her off. There was little amusement the next day, when I put up “Mouse Crossing” signs by the cellar door. A terse, “I suppose you think you’re very funny” drifted in my direction. And in truth, I did.
My mother, a person born and bred in the city, managed to find herself in adulthood living out in the country because my father, a country boy, wanted to give it a try. They bought an old house in rural southwestern New Hampshire. One particular story humorous (though not at the time) about her interactions with nature stands out. My father came out early one morning to head out to work, and found that a porcupine had taken up residence in the garage. He took a shovel and swatted it, thinking that he’d ended its young life. He carried it out beside the house and buried it, and left. My mother, a while later, went out to spray around the grave so that the dog wouldn’t dig it up. As she’s spraying, she noticed that the porcupine’s nose was emerging from the ground, apparently back from the dead. My father had only stunned it, and the poor thing was regaining consciousness. Screaming, she ran back into the house and summoned my older brother to finish off the beast and make sure it didn’t violate her space again. On another occasion, she’d cleaned out a submerged garbage can we had outside the back door. She propped it open to air out, and a small skunk tripped the prop and fell in. She discovered it later when she opened the lid. Again, there was a fair bit of shrieking and yelling, and I was called upon to “get it out”. In again fairness and full disclosure, my mother would go out to pick wild strawberries and blueberries. No sooner had she begun than my father, with a rather perverse sense of humor, would hide himself nearby and make grunting noises like a bear. It attracted pretty much the same response as my “mouse crossing” signs.
Every so often, we’ll get an ant or two, and some very small flying insects that look like, and about the same size as fruit flies invading the great indoors. My houseplants, of course bear the full blame for these incursions, because, well, it’s all part of nature and we’re well aware that it’s out to get her. Sitting in the living room on a pleasant evening, minding my own business and enjoying a television show, I’ll hear that dreaded phrase, “THERE’S A BUG!”. It’s said with significant urgency and intensity. Insects tend to bring out her most dramatic moments, and for insects that have made their way inside, there is no parole, no leniency, no mercy. A death sentence should be carried out instantaneously if not sooner. I, as the enforcement officer, am expected to take swatter in hand and follow the offender about the room in futile hope that it will light on a landing strip suitable for a brisk, accurate swat. That never happens, of course. It finds comfortable spots inside lamp shades, behind curtains, or it will dive down behind some piece of furniture, where I’m reasonably sure it is winking its antennae maliciously at me. After a few minutes, I’ll give up and wait for it to come out into plain sight, and we’ll replay the scenario over and over. About half the time, I get the culprit.
As does everyone, we’ll get the occasional mosquito in the bedroom, which is fun because you’d don’t know it’s there until you’ve shut off the lights. Then you get that humming – I think it’s right around an F# but the frequency fluctuates. Rather than the clarion call of a full bug alert, there will be a whispered, “there’s a bug in here”. My response in the affirmative doesn’t satisfy, so on come the lights and off we go. Have you ever noticed that you can slap mosquitos between your hands or smack them smartly with a book or magazine, and they still manage to escape? How is that possible? They disappear completely until the lights are again off, you’re resting comfortably, just about to doze off, and there it is again. F# humming in the night.
All around us, there are reports of insect colonies disappearing, species on the edge of extinction, all consequences presumably of climate change. It is without doubt a natural calamity in the making, with plants going unpollinated, bats, birds, and dragonflies going hungry, and other important links in food chains vanishing. However, at least one person will not grieve their loss, nor lament changes in the natural order. To her, it’s like a small scale “Game of Thrones”, and the sooner the Kingdom of Nature gets out of her way, the better.
I'm Thinking...No! 