I hate them. They are unpredictable little buggers, flying and hopping at will. This year? I swear the rains fed them. As I mowed I saw one on the back of the garage that was nearly five inches in length and quite meaty. I’m praying some bird finds him and feeds the family.
Should I have been a prairie woman crossing the plains during a grasshopper or locust invasion (equally disliked as I had one caught in my hair as a kid!) I would have definitely gone mad. However, it’s funny how a child you love will make you readjust those supremely angst-ridden moments.
My granddaughter spent the weekend with us and I squished numerous bugs and batted away insects with nary a thought to my own squeamishness in hearing or feeling that crackle of their bodies when I demolished them in my Kleenex covered hands. “They won’t hurt you, they’re too little,” might have been one of my stupid comments. I merely recalled my grandmother and the famous June bug incident of ‘65. She picked up a gigantic red crawling offender from the basement floor and crushed it with her bare hands.
What year was it really? I don’t know, but I will never forget her bravery when I was a little child. Still inspiring me today, Grandma! Your legacy lives on in bug mitigation. Who knows? Maybe you hated them, too?