I am — not to boast — a bug magnet. I am an irresistible, “high attractor” type. A status I’d be happy to forgo if given the option. Still, people squabble over the right to sit next to me at a picnic, the beach or outdoor concert. After all, I am the main draw for a host of flying, stinging biters, including mosquitoes, black or green flies, deer flies, horse flies and no-see-ums. If we are in the same vicinity, you may not even notice that swarms of insects have joined our company. What I recently learned was that the list of my devotees was about to get longer, but more on that in a moment. First some details in case you think this is “fake news.”
A year ago this happened: We had just arrived in Florida, mid winter, to a deliciously warm night. First things first, I shed the socks, put on the flip-flops, bared crimson toe nails and chose dinner on the patio of a restaurant. We were just stretching out, breathing in a tropical breath and enjoying a celebratory cocktail, when the news of our arrival reached certain airways. Suddenly, I was on the menu. Something or some things were biting my naked toes, short-sleeved arms, even those cozy places behind the ears. In no time, I was a madly twitching and slapping dervish. “Shall we go inside?” my husband asked, resigned to the inevitable.
More evidence? This drama occurred while on a hike with my daughter on Cape Cod. We were following a dried streambed that led out to the dunes. It was early May, before the busy summer traffic, but when there’s so much life to witness in meadows and marshes. Emerging out of the scrub, I suddenly realized that I was covered in black dots and that the dots were in motion. Further investigation revealed that the dots were ticks, zillions of ticks, as if I had walked through an entire nest — which I had. This was no small ick factor, this was major nightmare panic material. Naturally, I didn’t think, I ran, shedding layers as I made a beeline into the frigid ocean, emerging frozen but purged. Need I say that my daughter was unscathed, and possibly a bit amused?
I could cite many more examples, but surely you now have proof of my magnetism. Yet, just a few weeks ago, I met up with a new misery. It was one those warm spring days, one of those grateful-to-have-hands-in-the earth days, when the siren call of the garden is loudest. Mindful of the beasties, I donned long pants, tucked them into my socks and put on gloves. I did roll up my sleeves, which seemed only a wee concession to sun and nature, and then began that delightful frenzy of first raking and hoeing, weeding and edging. How good that garden welcome, with its green shoots just under leafy mats, its deep resilience and chance to escape from the world’s current turmoil. So there we were, garden and I, in close encounter.
Which is when I noticed that my blue-gloved hands were crawling with small living things. In fact, my jeans and my arms were also covered in all the bare and in between spots. Soon, there were sharp shards of pain. The cause — tiny ants, tiny ants with microscopically huge fangs. Again a whirlwind of swipe and slap, but the damage was already done, my skin a fusion of red welts and angry itches. Thus, my garden and I parted company.
Over the years, I have done some research on insect attractions. I discovered that mosquitoes have a preference for certain blood types, such as Type O over A (Type B is meh). In addition, there is the distinction that 20 percent of us are “high secreters,” thus signaling our blood types to the insect world. Heavy breathing provides large out-breaths of carbon dioxide, yet another calling card. There is also a trait known as “lively skin,” which relays a printout of sweat, heat and specifically delectable bacteria. In other words, some of us possess a combination of outstanding physiological assets, that certain “je ne sais quoi” of popularity.
And yet, the garden still calls as do our beautiful waterways, orchards and woodlands. Next time, I will smear on the lemon verbena (add a dash of DEET) wear longer sleeves, maybe even a veil and try not to exhale. It isn’t easy being irresistible, and of course some of you know what I mean.
Ruth Charney lives in Greenfield.