The best advice I ever received was to never start a land war in Asia, but that’s basically where I’m at now.
The Asia part is my back yard and I’ve fallen into the trap of fighting because of suburban America’s obsession with green lawn.
Growing up, we had a 30×30 front yard, and 30×100 back yard. Mowing that lawn seemed like one of the worst chores possible, but I’d give seven bucks and my left nut if that’s all I had to deal with now.
When we chose this lot in the subdivision, I was tickled because it was one of the largest, about .65 acre. Half of it was trees and brush, half of what was left was house. The mowing went quickly because there wasn’t a lot of room for grass.
Soon I realized that the brush and trees were a problem. The heavy undergrowth was perfect for poison ivy, and I started a campaign of clearing the land. We dragged out the fallen limbs and trees, pulled brush out by the roots, and tried to plant grass in its place.
The dozens of remaining trees cast plenty of shade and the grass wouldn’t take. Soon, the weeds took hold again, followed by poison ivy and grape vine. With two young kids, a day job, and limited money, I gave up.
The first battle of the back yard was lost.
My next opportunity came in the form of an invading pest, the Emerald Ash Borer, which killed 40 trees in our back yard. (Yes, 40.) We found an arborist to clear them out, gave him a lot of money, and for the first time the darkest section of the back yard was clear.
I stacked up a lifetime supply of fire wood, made plans for converting the cleared area into lawn, and promptly ignored it all. The busy-ness of life was still there, and the supreme effort it took to clean the mess after the trees were felled made me think I’d earned some time off. That, and the kids were in more activities than ever.
Soon the weeds and poison ivy returned. The second battle of the back yard was lost before it really began.
Having licked my wounds and rewritten the history of those lost battles, I had reconciled with the enemy. To blazes with the back yard. We’ll stay on the deck, that strip of side yard next to the garage will be our lawn, and everything will be fine.
For the next ten years, that’s what we did. Meanwhile, the other fifty trees in the yard got bigger, the shade grew darker, and I consoled myself whenever I saw the overgrown area and remembered my hopes and dreams for a nice back yard.
Then we got a dog.
The dog ran into the overgrown area a few times and emerged with ticks. I had never experienced ticks before then, but quickly realized I hated them. I hated them more than the wasps and yellow jackets that made their home in our back yard, and I hated them more than the poison ivy scaling the trunks of our trees and sprouting up beneath our deck.
Ticks crawl up your leg or arms and hide out in dark, moist places on your body until you fall asleep. Then they make their final journey to an awkward, out of the way place, and bury their heads in your skin to drink your blood. Tick bites are the worst.
Mosquitoes buzz around and annoy you, and their bites make you itch, but other than West Nile and Eastern Equine Encephalitis, they’re pretty harmless. Mosquitoes are like obnoxious people downtown, making noise, getting in your face about something.
Hornets and Wasp stings are painful, and can kill you if you’re allergic, but you have to bother them to cause a fight. They’re like tough guys in a tough neighborhood, and they don’t like you messing around on their turf.
Ticks, on the other hand, infiltrate your clothing and hide out in your most intimate body parts. They stay with you for hours before launching their attack while you’re in the sanctity of your home. Ticks are like a door-to-door window salesman who just walked into your house without you realizing and, when you sit down to eat dinner in front of the television, they emerge and start their pitch, ruining your evening and give you a disease as a parting gift.
During those ten years of ignoring the back yard, I had inadvertently created ideal tick habitat: long grass growing above moisture-trapping fallen leaves, all in a shady area frequented by squirrels, rabbits, and mice. To top it off, we were frequented by deer feeding from our bird feeders, ensuring that the lifecycle of the bacteria that causes Lyme disease (deer, to tick, to mouse, to tick, to me) was uninterrupted.
I immediately installed poultry fence to keep the dog out of the overgrown area, and made plans to launch the next battle of the back yard. But ticks kept hitching rides into our house.
If I’m lucky, I notice the ticks in the evening while I sit watching television. It makes its way up my leg or arm and sends me into a minor panic.
If I’m only somewhat lucky, I notice them during the night, as I lay in bed, and feel something in my shorts or on my neck. During the run-up to bedtime, I check constantly, touching myself like a horny teenager caressing my own body.
Four times I’ve awoken in the dead of night because a tick was on my face, making its way to my hair (you can’t blame them, it’s pretty good hair if I do say so myself).
The one time I was very unlucky, I found a tick attached behind my scrotum in that magical circle surrounding the anus. It was no fun removing that blood-bloated monster.
So the war of the back yard continues. During the past five years, I’ve cleared the overgrown area and it now sports fresh grass. The weeds and fallen leaves are pushed back and away from the property. I spray a tick-repellent every couple of weeks. And still I find ticks on me. Ten last year and five so far this year.
That’s the funny thing about wars. You can win a territory but the enemy may shift and persist in ways you hadn’t expected. Final victory may extract a toll on yourself that changes your very being.
The war on drugs, which was really a class war, became an unwinnable game of Whack-a-Mole.
When 43 declared “Mission Accomplished” or whatever, we spent the next 20 years chasing terrorists, fighting insurgents, and losing soldiers, including my cousin David.
The end of the Civil War was the beginning of another war, a cultural war, we’re still fighting today.
The Great War begat World War II which begat the Cold War and the Cold War’s unwanted step-children: the Korean Conflict and the Vietnam War.
My back yard war is peanuts compared to geopolitics, but I swear the obsession with ticks is changing me. I can’t really make peace with the ticks, but I don’t want to spray one of those chemicals that kills everything in the back yard either. I want to see bees and butterflies and birds and toads. If I carpet bomb the back yard to kill the ticks, I’ll think the chemical will give me cancer in a couple of years.
War is a hell of a thing. I just wish there was another way.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk
For those of you in mid-Michigan, I’m presenting workshops on creativity, drawing on 40 years of writing, filmmaking, and dirty limericks. Hosted by A Novel Concept in downtown Lansing, in July, attendance is limited so jump on this fun chance to improve your creative practices, regardless of your skill level.
Visit A Novel Concept for more info: www.anovelconcept517.com/events.
Recommended Reading
I’m currently reading The Huntress by Kate Quinn. Kind of related to what I just said about enemies shifting once a war is “over,” the story is about a hunt for a war criminal who has escaped to Boston. What I’m enjoying most is the backstory of a Russian pilot who is now part of the team chasing the Huntress. Looking forward to what is sure to be a climactic finish.
Next Picayune
I hope you take a moment to appreciate Juneteenth. I’ll be back in a couple of weeks with another story.
P.S. Order my book!