‘Summer intrudes, itch-by-ouch’

Most people know that I dislike summer. Someday, when I’m in the yard of my mansion in the sky planting azaleas I couldn’t afford on earth, I hope to ask God why he couldn’t stop with just balmy springs, chilly falls and cold winters. 

I made a pact with myself last summer, vowing I would no longer harbor plants that couldn’t take care of themselves. If they can’t survive without the water I am able to provide, then this is exclusive property. Plants allowed must be in bulb, corm or rhizome form, and any hangers-on who constantly whine for water, food and Neem oil will have to go elsewhere. 

With this plan I can discard various shovels and spades. I will keep my dad’s asparagus knife, regardless of having no asparagus. It was a common sight to see him down on one knee, attacking dandelions with this versatile tool.

There are some plants with miniscule bulbs and roots that no herbicide will remove permanently. They have more relatives than do ants and aphids. Snowdrops, Confederate violets, Spring Beauties and wild onions are among them. They do announce that spring has arrived, but they wear out their welcome. Those insane red spider lilies, and the pink ones called “Naked Ladies” that bloom in the fall, have taken over my backyard. (I apologize, but it wasn’t I who named them.) Their seemingly baseball-size bulbs grow leaves two-feet tall then flop over yellow and dead for three months if you don’t remove their nasty carcasses. Recently, they were shoveled up, disposed of and dispersed. I fully expect the city’s yard waste truck to return them and pile them at my back door. 

Then there are the insects. I can spray for squash bugs, and they will lap it up, then stand on chewed leaf edges begging for more. I can put beer out to terminate a slug, and he will invite me to pull up a chair for a cool draft and peanuts. White flies drift unafraid out of tomato plants like synchronized swimmers from an old Busby Berkeley movie.

Biting insects are drawn to me like moths to a porch light. Everyone else strolls about their property like P. Allen Smith on a scent-laden Arkansas day, while I smell like a chemical manufacturing plant with my wafting fumes of Eau de DEET. Some say these pests are attracted to the scent of foods people have eaten, but surely no gnawing, stinging insect should be captivated by poke salad and cornbread.

Last year, we battled swarms of black flies for the first time. They attacked immediately as I walked outside, flitting around me until my flailing arms finally exposed a bare spot. Their bites can send you to the doctor, who will say, “Hmm. I’ve never seen that before.” You glance at his diploma and sure enough, it does not indicate a specialty in massive knots from insect bites. 

My latest encounter was with a red wasp. I placed my hand on top of a deck chair not knowing he had already proclaimed squatter’s rights. We were both offended by our trespassing. Stung me in the palm of my hand, he did, and in extreme pain, I raced for ice. It took three weeks to heal, but only a second to remember why wasps are not our friends.

Enter the ladybugs. Gardeners actually purchase them because they devour aphids. Males and females look the same except the male is smaller. Unlike the Asian beetle, their tan look-alike cousin with a black “M” on his head, they do not bite or sting. I apparently made friends with three ladybugs recently. I suppose we had a hatching somewhere and the trio had a three-week visit, crawling on various things. I fished one out of the dishwater twice, unfazed and continuing her journey. As the world itself should be, I let them be and they let me be. 

One evening one of these six-legged houseguests flew down and landed on my hand. I jumped because I thought it was a wasp, forgetting that ladybugs have black wings under those red or yellow-orange shells. It reminded me that if one does light on you, it is a world-wide sign of good luck coming. I’m still waiting, but I know it will happen. How could a bug be wrong?

 

Vivian Lawson Hogue

A native of Conway, Vivian Lawson Hogue graduated from the University of Central Arkansas with a degree in art education. A retired teacher, she worked in the Conway School District for 23 years. She can be reached at [email protected].

Vivian Lawson Hogue
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