Summer Rain

I woke up early this morning, and heard the sheets of rain as they were coming down, the loud, individual drips from the drain pipes, and from the window in my office, I now hear the water pooling, gurgling almost, in a part of our lawn which has insufficient drainage, and the additional drip of water into the eddies and puddles on our patio, because it has, I guess, insufficient drainage.

I grew up with Midwestern summer rain – thunder storms and lightening and the way the air got warmer and wetter and thicker as rain approached. Rain that might not break the heat. Rain that, in combination with humid air above lakes and rivers, fomented into the perfect breeding grounds for mosquitoes. If I’d bothered to take Zoology 101 in college, I’d have learned the reason: A warm, moderately humid climate and fertile soil are favorable for insect population growth. I’d have also learned that some mosquito species fly into the wind, others against the wind, so no matter how much wind we’d have, it would help these little critters, dispersing them to even more favorable breeding grounds. What the Professor and the textbook wouldn’t have explained, however, is how it was that the entire mosquito population in the Midwest seemed intent on one destination: my body.

Apparently, some people are more sensitive to the chemicals the mosquitoes leave behind – some people barely feel the itch. I, as will come as no surprise, am on the sensitive side of things – emotional and physical and, apparently, metabolic. So when I get bit, I itch. A lot.

This was the era of calamine lotion, which, given as much time as I spent sporting a body suit of pink blotches, would have been a better era if the lotion had worked. This was the era of sleep-away camps and cans of Off. I sprayed myself until I had fumes rising off my clothes and hair, but still, put me in an area with other humans and mosquitoes, and the outcome is reliable – I’m gonna get bit. A lot.

When I was in my 20’s, and headed off to my first and only Club Med experience, I’d pre-dosed myself for two weeks with Vitamin B tablets, as I’d heard that if I ingested enough of this vitamin, my blood would change, making me no longer the human equivalent of a mosquito meth lab. I took a lot of vitamin B. I got bit less than my travel companion. But I got bit.

Over the years, my plight has been shared, and the war against mosquitoes has become more effective. Citronella candles – where were you when my folks wanted to eat on the patio in summer? DEET, oh DEET, why did you stay away so long?

Last summer, on a weekend trip to a National Park, I found the perfect combination for me: I pre-treated my clothes with stuff that was supposed to get in the fibers and repel insects. I combined every possible high-level topical repellant and slathered myself multiple times a day. I sprayed additional stuff over my (pre-treated) clothes. I wore multiple layers. I sprayed the tent, inside and out. Sprayed the sleeping bags. I stunk, my clothes stunk, my skin had a yellow-green sheen, and my Off™ Clip-On battery-operated fan made a low, consistent noise everywhere I went, sending toxic fumes circulating around me. At night, I hung the Off fan inside the tent. My trip is underscored by the white noise of the continuous murmur of the fan.

Other people who visit National Parks are apparently there to celebrate Nature. They might wear a layer or two, or even put on a “natural” repellant. To them, I was the eco-anti-Christ. It’s possible that there will be mutant forms of fauna and flora that will one day be traced back to the introduction of my chemical warfare last July. But, by the end of our trip, I noticed that the most virulent of the eye-ball starers sidled up to me at the campfire, surreptitiously standing in my circulating stream, stealing my protection like it was the neighbor’s wi-fi.