Helped a buddy do some landscaping today, at his place out in the boondocks.

I love craggy old New England. When I first came Out East from the midwest, almost fifteen years ago, it was like I’d found a landscape that looked like my soul. The severe beauty of the brutal coast of Maine, just like Winslow Homer depicted it. I spent that first summer in and around Baxter State Park, on the Appalachian Trail, then came down to Boston for six very rough weeks, and headed back north to new Hampshire to work in an orchard there. Went back year after year for seven years for the harvest. The green, rolling hills. The austere architecture. Those stone walls in the woods.

And all the craggy old New Englanders, when I wintered in the little farmhouse in ‘95.

Anyway, in some respects, there’s nowhere I would rather be. The coast of Maine is incomparable. And regardless of what those armchair patriots in the red states may think, this is where it’s at.

Despite the mosquitos. And Mosquitos love me. I mean, LOVE me. What’s up with that? I remember when I was first up in the wilds of Maine, I was actually working for the AT conference up there, and there were ten or twelve of us doing trail reconstruction, erosion control, and maintenance, and living on-site in the woods, or at a place called Packard Farm outside of the god-forsaken little town of Monson (apologies to any Monsonians out there, but yee-ikes).

So, of the whole group of us only, like, two of us were bug-magnets. A guy named Scotty and me. And it was not just the mosquitos. Deer flies. I remember being out in the middle of a lake in a canoe trying to escape one of those menacing, pint-size bullies.

And when black fly season came it was…indescribable. You could easily go stark-raving mad. Easily. Any part of my body that was not completely covered was made a meal of–and those black fly bites scarred me for months. I used to have to wear one of those hats with the netting, and gloves, and long-sleeves in the muggy height of summer. And still they got me. There were bites on top of bites.

Scotty and I tried swallowing cloves of garlic, but it didn’t do either of us a bit of good, as far as I could tell. There’s apparently some research that says that the profile of the perfect human prey for mosquitos is male, overweight, with type ‘O’, only one of which applies to me. I’m male, that is. Every inch of me. And don’t you forget it. Scotty was kind of overweight, though. I don’t know what blood type, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it was ‘O’.

There’s been some serious research on this recently, I guess, but still nothing conclusive. One article in US News describes a horrible, horrible study–can you imagine agreeing to participate in a study where they put you in some kind of chamber and let mosquitos feast on you? Only 28 people did, apparently. And what they found was: “There was a consistent difference in who was least attractive and who was most attractive. Some people simply produce more of compound X than compound Z.” Whatever. Some Australian study says it might be genes. This is why we need more stem cell research, people!

I am one of those people who’s deadly allergic to bees, too. But bees are much more reasonable than mosquitos, deer flies or black flies. Because bees are workers. You understand that, and try not to be a drama queen (it’s not ALWAYS about YOU, you know), and they’re about their business and leave you to yours. They don’t want any trouble. They don’t have the time. Plus, you know, they know that if they have to take you, it’s a suicide mission. And they’d rather not. Wasps are into it. Those mothers will sting you again and again out of the pure giddy pleasure of inflicting pain. But bees, knowing what’s at stake, are only going to do it if you’re acting the fool.

I’ve worked in orchards, like I said, for years, and never had the least trouble. I used to carry my anaphylaxis kit out with me, but I like bees, and respect them, and we just sort of reached an understanding. Mosquitos are blood suckers, and everyone knows once it gets that far, you can’t reason with them. I mean, somebody who wants to drink your blood–what kind of understanding can you reach with them?

Anyway, non sequitur: saw this little frog below as I was pulling some weeds. He could have balanced on my fingertip. I chased him around a little trying to get him to pose for me. I got a couple of shots, and he hopped under some dead leaves. Then my buddy shows up with the weed whacker cutting this huge swath of destruction, without the least regard for Nature’s hidden little wonders. It was like that old Pixie’s song “Wave of Mutilation.” I don’t know what happened to Mr. Frog, but I imagine he managed to clear out in time.

And check out those mating moths! They look a little bored to me. Nature’s funny.

6/22/06

Categories: garden snapshots