When I get to Heaven someday, I want to look up Noah and ask him why in the … world … he didn’t swat those mosquitoes while he had a chance. It won’t matter anymore, of course, but I am curious.
I know the varmints serve as food for bats and some species of birds, and that the larvae make up an important food source for other aquatic things, but it seems to me there might have been different options for those infernal little buzzing links in the food chain.
I made the mistake the other morning of dashing out to the truck wearing just a pair of shorts. My errand was a brief one, and the day’s second cup of coffee hadn’t even been infused, so that might have played a role in my bad choice.
I was swarmed. I’m reasonably sure I lost a half-pint of blood in the 75 feet from the house to the truck. I was on the defensive for the return trip, so I likely only lost a teaspoon or so.
As I wiped down my arms with rubbing alcohol, trying to wash some of the gaping wounds, I thought about how those dodgasted bugs led to a night of misery nigh onto a half-century ago.
My generation might well have been the last to tie a few things on a bicycle, sling on a knapsack, and tell our parents where we thought we would be going camping that night. The biggest concerns I remember from such outings – and there were likely hundreds – was whether to take a dog, a fishing rod or shotgun (depending on the season) and what would happen if we were caught sneaking the wrong food out of the refrigerator.
My buddy Robbie and I headed out for just such an adventure one summer afternoon, a few weeks before school was scheduled to ring in a new year. We had the typical melancholia mixed with excitement that always greeted a new school year: yes, we would be losing much of our freedom, but there would be new faces, maybe some new and interesting classes, and of course, dove season started shortly after the first day of classes.
The week prior had been particularly wet; there may or may not have been a hurricane, but we were far enough inland that we just had a few days of rain that left us moping around the house until our mothers chased us away, thunderstorms or not. The skies cleared, we cheered, we got our lawns mowed, and we decided it would be a fine night to go camping at one of our favorite spots, maybe catch a fish, maybe watch a meteor shower. Sure it was hot, but we were bolstered by those old 64-ounce soft drinks with the foam covering, the kind that fit snugly in an Army surplus pouch, as well as a canteen or two.
It amazes me now when I realize that as a 13 or 14 year old, I thought little of straddling a bicycle carrying a knapsack half-full of food (often in metal cans), some kind of cooking gear, a tackle box, a heavy glass bottle of Coke or maybe grape soda, a bucket of fishing gear and sometimes a sleeping bag, then riding that bike for miles, in 90 degree temperatures. It makes my knees and back hurt just writing those words now.
Robbie was similarly accoutered, and we casually pedaled our way to what was commonly called The Range, where our hunting safety club met. It was a sprawling property, with much more than just a shooting range, and we had several campsites scattered around the old gravel pit ponds and woods. We both had somewhat narrow-tired bikes that were not made for riding through the red clay mud of the trails, so we walked and pushed our bikes for the last half-mile or so. The night promised to be cloudy, so we rigged a simple shelter from a dropcloth borrowed (possibly without permission) from his dad, started our fire and enjoyed an al fresco dinner as the sun began to drop. We may have rigged a few catfish lines, but we didn’t really have to do anything to enjoy our camping trips back then.
Then came the mosquitoes.
There were some darn effective bug sprays back then, but it turned out I had forgotten to pack mine. Robbie’s gave one last sibilant hiss of aerosol propellant and teased us with a half-full can and no way to access it. Still, it wasn’t the end of the world; we had dealt with bugs before, and figured a nice roaring fire would be enough to keep most of the skeeters away, as it had been in the past.
We were mistaken.
I am not sure if we had the same enormous gallinipper mosquitoes back then that are such a pest today, but whatever the phylum, class, order, family, genus or species of those things, they were worthy of a government study grant. They would have made Rachel Carsons buy a flit gun of DDT. I am reasonably sure we had a glimpse of the monsters described in the Book of Revelation. They disregarded our smoky fire and raging flames, and bit through our jeans and shirts. Robby was bitten inside his nose; as he thrashed and blew the beast out, I laughed – and was promptly bitten on the inside of one cheek.
Somewhere deep in the early morning hours, we gave up. We broke camp, reloaded our bikes, and began heading home in the darkness. As we turned onto the main road – one that today is never without traffic, but back then we silent and dark and safe in the wee hours of the morning – my seat broke. I ended up riding another three or four miles standing, which was okay, since the combination of sweat and mosquito bites on the insides of my legs was worse than the poison ivy skinny dipping incident, which is a column for another day.
We realized we were breaking a parental rule and the law by not having lights on our bikes, so in addition to all of this we both balanced weak two-cell flashlights while trying to outrun any leftover flying monsters.
Robby lived about mile from my house, but he graciously said I could spend the rest of the night in his dad’s open shed. I was happy to do so. His father was a little surprised to see me pop up from my blankets when he headed out for work at 5:30, but was kind enough to give me a ride the rest of the way home.
Miss Lois thought I had gotten into a beehive, because my face was so swollen. Thankfully, there were a few dead mosquitoes still trapped in my clothes or splattered on my arms, so I could show that it wasn’t anything to worry about.
I am not exaggerating. I had mosquito carcasses as large as a dime in my clothing, and one that was trapped under my wristwatch band that was still moving when I crawled into a bathtub of generously salted water.
I was reminded again of the Battle of the Bugs as I headed out for work the other morning (fully dressed this time) and a dozen of those monsters sopped into the car. Thankfully, all but one blew out when I dropped the windows and punched the gas.
That one had a death drip on the warp and weave of my dress pants, and seemed to be making an obscene, defiant gesture with one its legs as it drove its beak through the fabric.
The stain came right out, and I doubt it stole more than a milliliter of blood. It reminded me again to be sure to look up Noah one day, and remind him that while he did a great service to mankind by saving the human race and the animals, as well as being a champion of faith in God – but he likely would have been remembered as a saint had he swatted those two mosquitoes.
Be the first to comment