License to Hunt ...
June 27, 2000
7:41 a.m.
Brigid leaves for girl scout camp this afternoon. She'll be gone two weeks. Lisa and Brigid had gone out shopping for her trip before our vacation, but of course, Brigid's grown since then, and needed new stuff--so they went out again yesterday. Last night, they packed Brigid's humongoid foot locker with all her clothes. Well. Almost all her clothes. My job in the whole mess was to go outside with the Super Massive Bug Spray Device and dose her jeans and socks against ticks and mosquitoes and whatever other bugs one might find in a girl scout camp. To that list, I add "boy scouts." So, I took the clothes outside in the darkness and flipped on the lights. We have a screened in porch, so within a minute or two I had a whole audience of June bugs lined up on around the porch looking in to get to the lights. "You don't want to be here," I thought. But I didn't say anything. I lined up her socks and started to spray. A cloud of bug stuff rose. I sprayed some more. A cloud rose again. The smell of bug spray went out to the audience. I swear I heard chitinous carcasses clattering through the bushes outside. As a conscientious adult, Lisa had made me read the directions before heading into the great outdoors--specifically checking out the warning labels. If I got it on my skin, I was to immediately wash in hot, soapy water. That part I had paid attention to. After a few more clouds of bug death the first can came to its end. The audience continued to fall away, but seemed to be replaced by an endless supply of less-than-intelligent bugs. Bugs, I think, are like teenaged boys. A teenaged boy sees a friend get hurt doing something stupid and does not immediately think "Wow, I'll have to avoid that." Instead, a teenaged boy thinks, "Wow. That's really cool. Bet I can do it and not get hurt." This analogy really bothers me, but only because it is quite true. And it bothers me more and more as my daughter gets older and older. But then, what the heck can I do about it, right? Anyway, the screens continued to be lined with teen aged bugs. As I went to get the second can, I refreshed my reading of the warning label. "Inhalation: Have person breath deeply in a well-ventilated location. If necessary, use artificial respiration." Artificial respiration? Holy bejeebies. You've got to pause when you see something like that, you know? But I got the second can out and trudged back to the porch thinking something along the lines of whether teenaged boys every really grow up or not, and wondering what that question has to do with me. More bugs were lining up when I arrived at the killing zone. Spray. A cloud of bug dust. I think I saw a bug trying to give artificial respiration to one of its fallen comrades. I just held my breath. Seemed like as good of a remedy as any, you know? Then it was done. The clothes were dosed. No ticks for my little girl. At no time I did I need artificial respiration--though I considered faking it when Lisa came by. [mischievous grin] I'm figuring, though, that I'll have to stock up on that spray. Brigid's 11 years old. Won't be long. Some fathers clean their shot guns. Others get out the hunting knives. Me, I'll just sit out on the porch with my bug spray. :)  "Hear that, man? That's my skull!" bonus points to anyone who gets the reference... Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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