death on the terrace

It is not always necessary to leave the house to encounter natural wonders (happy trails to me).

My blogger pal Jennifer Rose says whenever I post an essay about bugs or flowers, she knows I am getting bored. Whether or not that is true, I do like my nature encounters. And one of the best spots to get up close and personal with the bug set is on my upper terrace at night.

I no longer head out to the streets on my nightly miles-long walks. Whenever I feel tempted to do that, my chin, ribs, and scarred knees remind me that avoiding tripping hazards in the dark is next to impossible for me.

Instead, I flip on the lights on the terrace. And I walk.

But I am never alone. I live in the tropics. Those lights attract every seasonal and nonseasonal flying insects in the vicinity. If I had kept that insect collection I started when I was in high school, I could easily fill it out with new candidates. Some nights I almost need an eye shield to navigate the cloud of flying bugs. It is not smoke getting in my eyes (as The Platters would have it), but gnats clogging my nose.

Last night I was in mid-walk, commiserating with my insect pals, when I heard the distinct whine of the vector control truck making its way down my street. There are two distinct national reactions to the sprayer. Some people run inside and close their doors and windows against the sprayed insecticide. Others fling open their doors and windows while their children play in the streets.

I tend to be in the latter group (except for the children part) as a matter of practicality. I have no windows in my house to close and the sliding glass doors that open onto my patio are permanently open. And, as I told you, I was in mid-walk last night when the angel of death passed by. If I do not stop to chat while walking, I am not going to break stride for some insecticide.

I do not know what the chemical is that is frequently sprayed here to combat the Aedes aegypti mosquito. That pesky mosquito that is most famous for spreading yellow fever in other parts of the world. Here, it principally spreads the viruses for zika, dengue, and chikungunya -- all of them quite nasty diseases. And periodically all are prevalent here.

Does it work? I am not certain. The Aedes aegypti clan does not visit my terrace often while I am walking. At least, I do not see them. They primarily bother me in the patio. But I do know the insecticide, whatever it is, is quite effective against a lot of my visitors.

The cloud barely settles in before the flyers start tumbling to the floor. Moths. Butterflies. True bugs. Oddly, the cockroaches and beetles do not seem to be affected.

One death last night struck me as a true loss. I do not see a lot of mantises here. I know they are around because I occasionally see one in the landscaping or flying past the lights of the terrace at night, looking like troopers for Galaxyquest's Roth'h'ar Sarris. They almost never land.

The one at the top of the essay did. To her cost. The struggle was short. No more than a minute. What had once been an animated killing machine quickly transformed into ant food.

And that is exactly what happened. In the morning, a trove of tiny ants had pulled her carcass to the drain where they had set up their home.

The carcass would not fit through the grate, so they methodically carved her up as efficiently as Kiowa dressing a bison. Within minutes, the last vestige of the mantis had disappeared. It was as if she had never been there.

Last week at dinner, Gary and I were discussing a recurring theme. Over the past decade, a series of what could only be called local characters have died. While alive, almost everyone knew who they were. Usually, by their message board handles: Dryhouse, Wichita. Sparks.

And now, they are like that poor benighted mantis. Pulled down by the vagaries of life. Even though ants did not dispose of their bodies, the memory of who they were has faded to the point that when we mention them to other people, it is as if they had never been amongst us.

That, of course, is the same theme my mother told me when we were discussing her health on a recent visit. "We are born. We live. We die." My Mom can out-philosophize Sartre. Of course, she has the advantage of still being alive.

At least, the death of the mantis has been remarked upon before she completely slips into oblivion.