To tackle a Plague of Ants

Finally enjoying the lawn.

I'm ashamed of what I've done.

I've done something I've said I would never do.

I keep telling myself that our actions are justified. Maybe to a normal person they are, but I'm almost losing sleep over this...Not actually, but I do feel rather guilty.

Okay. We used a pesticide on our lawn.

Since our home was built, we have been living in a dusty clay desert. Everything inside and out of the house having a consistent layer of red powder. Native seeds having been trampled and compacted too far down in the soil, and continual construction hadn't given the landscape a chance to green up fully in years. This year, the surrounding retaining walls built and we could once and hopefully for all, lay grass down. With pre-grown strips of sod being so expensive, we decided the easiest and cheapest course of action was to laid down seed and cross our fingers that they would take root. Armed with a slew of YouTube tutorials, I carefully leveled, raked and cleared the lawn, and with some technical help from our handy Uncle, we dug, set up and buried a pop-up sprinkler irrigation system. After finally seeding, I called my husband out to help me walk all over the lawn, in lieu of a roller, to press the seeds into the soil. Arms around each others shoulders, we giggled and chatted as we performed our silly dance. Accepting funny looks from parents, and hoping the neighbors across the little valley weren't outside to witness this impromptu ritual. We opened the water after, watching the water sprinkle over the herringbone pattern our footsteps had made and metaphorically sat back with high hopes.

Initially I feared the biggest obstacle we would encounter in germination would be birds, our fellow flock of Spanish Sparrows, pecking at the seeds, but oh how wrong I was. It's the ants. Armies of them. Literal armies. Well-trained, marching in perfect order, working tirelessly night and day, carting away huge piles of seeds. Like buckets full of seeds. Not even an exaggeration. I have to give them a serious round of applause for their hard work. The night after we seeded, we came home to a meter-wide marching row of them congregating in the driveway, going from lawn to their several burrows along the driveway. I estimate we lost almost a quarter of the seed we put down to them. Big ants, small ants, red ants, black ants. We have a Doctor Suess worthy amount of ants that we're facing. I can't even make this up.

At first I was adamant about not using pesticides. Anyone who knows me, knows I only kill a bug as a last resort, and even then manually. I want to respect them and their existence and give them a fair fight. I genuinely not try to kill an insect unless it has taken or is in the process of taking my blood or the blood of someone around me. I once captured over 100 fruit flies individually and released them outside. I will hastily relocate massive spiders, scorpions, hornets, earwigs, flies, does not matter. Partially because if my husband comes across an "intruder" in the house, he will spare no time in squishing them with a hefty swat of a house slipper. He's gotten better over the years of our relationship. He will at least call me first to come and get them. I do still find a lot of squashed earwig and fly bodies littered around the house though, so I digress.

But here's a confession of mine. One that I believe is at the root of this simple kindness to insects. When I was a child, my brothers and I captured, tortured, squished and electrified bugs. My parents bought those awful electric "zappers", the ones shaped like tennis rackets for dealing with mosquitoes. I'm assuming they were designed as such in an effort to mask their true insidious nature in a subconscious tactic to normalize this modern murder weapon). We'd not only use these for swatting blood-suckers, but if memory serves correct we would place other various insects and spiders on the "grill" just to see what would happen. At first I remember watching with fascination, and then eventually disgust. Maybe at first mostly at the smell of their freshly fried bodies, and then later at the reality of what we were doing.

This alone would be bad enough, but even worse I would say are what we did to the insects my parents called "Chinese Pinchers". One quick google search shows, as I now suspected that this was not their real name, and nor did they pinch nor come from China. Enter the White-spotted Sawyer. Frankly I want to cry looking at them. They're relatively not even that large, and quite elegant. If I saw one now, I'd be fascinated.

Post Written The day after I started writing this one of the Mediterranean varieties landed on our balcony. I noticed them while I was hanging the laundry and just silently observed them. I do thoroughly appreciate the universe bringing one to me in order to supplicate and possibly make amends, if only symbolic in nature.

But to these Sawyer beetles, we would capture them in a mesh bug-holding cage, and then proceed to pull at their extremities with tweezers. It's been over two decades, and I still remember their little shrieks. What sort of PTSD people deal with in seeing loss and dismemberment on a grand scale I can't even imagine. On an another notes though, none of my brothers seem to have been affected in the same way. They have no issue exterminating insects, though I doubt anyone except the one who went on to become a nurse in the military would be able to take on anything larger than a centipede. Not only just in extermination, but they (and most around me) find no fascination, reverence or even appreciation for insects or lifeforms aside from maybe cats, dogs and a limited number of farm animals.

While writing this, investigating the use of pesticides, I do feel as though I'm pulling on the thread of unraveling my philosophy of the planet. Getting closer to the heart of what I intended to investigate with this blog in the first place. Namely, why do humans feel the need or even ability to separate themselves in being and ultimately their identity from the planet? Two very specific times I have been confronted with this notion come to mind. Firstly, during a college painting course I investigated this topic, in the form of a large poster-sized painting of human figures, in all stages of life, growing and living underground as the "roots" of trees. I posed this same question to the class, How would we act if we were actually part of the Earth? To which the Professor, Lewis, the most gentle old man, very reminiscent of Master Oogway, replied that we were, of course, a "part" of Earth. I remember standing silent in front of the class for a moment, dumbfounded being a decent way to describe my reaction. At this point in my naivety I thought I had invented the wheel with my clever depiction of humans this painting. I had no answer for him. I guess I equated being "part" of the Earth too literally, as one might be if they were actually encased in soil. Our society, at least the America of the late 20th and nascent 21st century I was raised in, certainly does/did an excellent job of instilling in me the notion that I was not a part of Nature. That humanity existed independent, outside of if, dare I say in spite of it's existence. I had come from my mother, and her before her, but that somehow the planet and everything in all it's expansive indefiniteness had nothing to do with my being here. That humans should give themselves a congratulatory clap on the back for "making" it to where we exist now. How? HOW? I want to scream about it sometimes. The cancerous cell that humanity has become in this corner of existence (if corners even do exist...I have my doubts). Are we not each a piece of the universal consciousness eating, farting, dreaming, making love, going to war, having a mid afternoon coffee? Why, HOW?, did this separation occur that makes us believe we are more important than the moss on trees, the fleas on the back of a lion, the algae in the sea, and the tides that rule them? We are exhibiting a very dangerous quality indeed, or perhaps performing an unspoken experiment rather. And to what end? As a teenager is pushed from their family unit by their inner urges that drive them to create their own, will we again be drawn back to the familial arms of the Earth after acting out these perilous charades? Would referring to ourselves as Earthlings rather than human help? When did our feeling of dominion over nature begin? To which seed can we point an accusing finger? I dare say with the invention of farming and all the acts that led us into a stagnant agricultural society could be to blame. The more I investigate farming, the more guilty the act becomes. When we first realized that seeds could be collected, stored, and planted to bring food when we needed nourishment? Was it hunting that gave us a sense of supremacy? If we could work together to bring down a mammoth, what else could we do? What else could we topple? Then why "invent" or pray to Gods? This is very much a discussion in need of philosophers, scientists, and anthropologists in one room.

Again, I digress. The next of these moments I bring to mind, were a day while farming a couple summers ago. We were tasked with laying down plastic lining over the rows in preparation for planting. This came at the same time of year as the Killdeers nesting season. The first time I'd encountered these sweethearts, I was struck by how impossibly cute they could be. Their bright red button eyes and decorative black and white chokers, flitting about almost too fast for your eye to follow. A member of the Plover family, they choose to nest on the ground, in rocky soil or among smalls stones in a sandy environment, where they can disguise their speckled eggs betwixt the roughage. (And weren't we graced with rocky soil in Casco.) We must have had at least four nesting pairs that had chosen their places in amongst last season's untouched crop rows and another couple pairs in the blueberry bushes. As we were running behind the tractor with shovels to bury the plastic edges, we would inevitably come close to the Killdeer parents protecting their clutches. One of the pair would run towards the us, the intruders, and spread their wings, hobbling around pitifully, performing this "broken-wing display." Us new farmers observed, distracted, all intrigued while the head farmer atop the tractor, watched on knowingly, having seen this every year. According to fellow human scientists, this dance maneuver is believed to be in effort to draw attention to the parent and away from the nest. If you were to approach or investigate, they would magically "heal" and fly even farther from the nest in hopes of diverting you ever more. So as the plastic mulching was laid down, we came to a crossroads. A Killdeer pair had made the unfortunate miscalculation of choosing a nesting place that happened to be right in the path of the crushing tractor wheels. In the pursuit of impeccable, orderly rows, must this young family be destroyed before being realized? Why were our ambitions to take priority? Because he "owned" the land? Had these birds not claimed their stake? Of course, all us new farmers, all girls, female, young women-if young can still be applied to myself, deeply protested. (Why I feel the need to specify our gender here? As ingrained in sexual identity the tenderness of women as to the harshness of man?) Why did it have to be us, humans, or them, the birds? As if we were then suddenly waging war against them, as I find myself now with the ants. In response, if I can accurately recall, our head farmer exuberantly exclaimed down at us, "We're not trying to work with nature, we're trying to concur it!" We all exchanged unsure glances, and looked back to the Killdeer and their eggs in sympathetic longing. With a heavy sigh in resignation, he carefully guided the tractor and the row was laid, crookedly, to accommodate for the brood. Small choices like this, that balance the scales in favor of...what? Earth? Nature? Would four less Killdeer eggs have changed the balance in the success of their population? Perhaps not. Did it make all the difference in the success of this tiny new family? I believe so.

So why...WHY...did I decide this year, to mix in a toxic powder in with the grass seed. Why did I feel that a luscious green lawn, a PURELY AESTHETIC desire, was more important than the health and survival of our local ant population. We were even nearing winter, late-fall when after years of a lack of resources in our lawn, these seeds laid down thick and plentifully must appear to be their saving grace for the coming months. Scenes from the movie Ants, played in my mind. When did I become the Grasshoppers? Not to mention, the numerous other insects that would fall victim to the non-discriminatory powder. I felt especially guilty the next several days when picking up moths and bees, motionless after having succumb to the poison intended for the ants. Creatures that I normally marvel quietly at, or excitedly greet, now dead at my hand. Do I blame my husband for suggesting we use poison to begin with? The thought had of course crossed my mind, so I couldn't put the blame there. Was it anger in having to "waste" money to buy more grass seed? Again, no. My husband and I have no children or pets, we aren't lacking in funds to buy another bag of grass seed if we needed to resew an area of the lawn, or even the whole lawn again if we so chose. And it was actual anger that I felt when I saw them working in careful tandem to cart away the seed. From where was this emotion coming? A decade ago I had scolded an ex-boyfriend's mother on pouring boiling water into an ant hill...Or were they wasps? So after watching myself pouring, successively harsher combinations of household deterrents from boiling water, salt, vinegar, and rubbing alcohol, to no avail, I acquiesced to the use of ant poison. The rest of my husband's family saw no issue in it, and even encouraged it's use. We have five large areas of lawn that "need" seeding, and so far I (according to my own observations at least) have been the catalyst for the landscaping of our collective property. No one else seems to be pushing to get this done except for me. To rescue us from the injustice of having to look and walk through mud and clay instead of waking up to blankets of grass.

This all feels so superficial of me. I felt akin to the "vain" homeowners of California watering their lawns in the middle of a drought. And yet, I had lived in California once upon a time. Had lived in an apartment building in the middle of an urban neighborhood where the closest thing to touching real grass was at least a 20 minute walk away. Our complex had, gulp, plastic turf that wrapped the buildings. Holes cut out for trees. I had spent many a night there, crying outside on the turf, dreaming of running my hands through real grass. For a girl who had been privileged enough to always have a manicured lawn to lay in, at the time I felt it's comforting absence acutely. I think in my adulthood I had come to equate a "lawn" with "home". That I wouldn't feel that our home was complete without an expanse of green in which to sit, play, relax, and indulge in. And perhaps indulge is the key word here in which I find shame? To look at grass lawns historically, they began as a sign of wealth. Families and individuals with so much land and money that they didn't need to sew vegetables or raise livestock in order to survive but could have entire pastures of grassland trimmed just for viewing pleasure. When passed on to suburban middle-class families, we tried to mimic that wealth in a small way. Growing inedible plants just for shits. Just for fun. And on and on down the line until Homeowner's Associations declared hanging laundry in the front-yard unsightly. God. Wealth. Excess. Agriculture. Maybe at least subletting your front-yard for your neighborhood gardener to grow veggies in having become trendy, we're slowly waking up. But to what?

I refused to buy more any poison when we seeded the third lawn area. Which has been far far slower to fill in. But as I write this, we're in the last week of November, some two months after the recommended planting time. I expected the late season and cooler temperatures to effect the establishment to some degree, but not nearly this much. The first lawn took about a week and a half to start seeing inch long blades of grass peaking up. We're about three weeks in on the front lawn, and the sprouts have yet to reach an inch yet. Another nearby colony of ants on the opposite side of the property living under a struggling Willow tree has proceeded in carrying of an undetermined amount of seed this time. I stepped on a handful of them halfheartedly when I discovered their undertakings. If I need to reseed I will. From the original seeding there's a massive mound of bright green grass growing atop of the original ant hill. They chose an area that we had landscaped with plastic mulch (another sigh) and lava rock. I haven't the heart or the energy to pull the grass up from there yet. That will be a several hour undertaking in itself. Fuck it. For another time.

For now I surrender to the might and woe of the other creatures we share a space with in our home in Turkiye...and enjoy the lawn. Cause damn. After years of walking in mud, this grass is a real treat.