On the Trail

An Avalanche of Ants
Has this ever happened to you?

You awake one bright morning, walk into your dining room not quite fully awake and find that overnight someone has painted thin brown stripes all over your lovely white walls, that run clear into the kitchen and adorn the white-washed cabinetry like graffiti.

Drowsily you rub your eyes. This is impossible.

What burglar enters your home to make some statement about your taste in home decorating but leaves behind the good silver and Gramma Rita’s souvenir Wedgwood cup and saucer with the embossed profile of the Queen Mum herself?

So you stagger closer to the wall for a better look, lift your finger to touch the painted brown line only to discover it’s moving.

Not only moving, but it’s a squiggling, industrious parade of home-invading ants direct from Cousin Greta’s oleanders planted along the front walkway.

Then you do what any sane half-asleep individual would do — you begin screaming for help at the top of your lungs.

Reinforcements arrive in a ragtag assortment of pajamas, T-shirts, sweats and one nightgown garishly adorned with leering teddy bears clutching red hearts in their chubby mitts. Quite a wake-up call for the entire household, if not the entire neighborhood.

Gentle Uncle Randolph wants to collect the ants on the edges of index cards and carry them safely outside. Sissy wants to erect what could possibly qualify as the world’s most immense ant farm. Little Brother wants to sic his sluggish lizard Luke on ’em. Cousin Greta reminds the head of the ant-besieged household that rumor has it that oleanders get aphids, aphids attract ants, and "That’s why I told you to plant them near the driveway, not the house!"

Sensible Cousin Phillip, who has had some "book-learnin’" as they like to say of smarty-pants individuals in the South, disappears into the kitchen, rattles around in various cabinets, and returns with a can of ant spray possibly untouched since the Great War.

Collectively the household gulps and pinches their noses while simultaneously erupting with encouraging cheers:

"Go for it!"

"Attaboy, Philly!"

"Let ‘er rip!"

We restrain gentle Uncle Randolph from interfering. He’s near tears at our merciless solution and has to be led outside to regain his composure with some deep breaths of fresh air. As a matter of fact, all but Fightin’ Phil exit the house post-haste.

When Phillip finally joins us the lad who saved the day assures us that not only is the ant problem solved, but he’s sponged off the now-ragged runny brown lines, leaving walls and cabinetry gleaming white once more.

Even standing in the backyard the ant spray fumes are potent. I and several others gag then get a touch light-headed. We ask Phillip how long this toxic stench will linger. According to the can, he says, the odor will dissipate in a half hour.

But that must be Martian time.

Holding our noses we race indoors, dress, then drive up to town for a celebratory breakfast. When we return the fumes are even more intense. Six months later not one of us can enter kitchen or dining room without taking a test whiff first.

If the wind’s not in our favor, we eat out. And although the oleanders have been transplanted to the driveway to spare us further ant invasions, we keep a pack of index cards handy and gentle Uncle Randolph on standby alert.