My 1969 Sour and MoonPie® Enlightenment

Miami-born, I spent my early childhood in south Florida, where I was accustomed to having a variety of fruits growing in my yard.  If they were not in my yard, they were somewhere in the neighborhood; maybe in a friend's yard, or in an unsuspecting neighbor's yard, or just growing up and down the sides of the streets--waiting to be picked. 

Surinam cherries

Surinam cherries grew off of shrubs that were incorporated in peoples' hedges at the fronts and sides of their yards.  Coconut trees were just a given in Miami, ubiquitously towering on most every street's right-of-way.  

Guavas

Guava trees were in the neighborhood, too, in somebody's yard, anyway.  Back in those days, it was OK to go around raiding the neighbors' yards and eating their fruits, so long as we kids didn't show up greedy-looking and carrying bushel baskets to fill off our neighbors' generosities.

An extra special person living in south Florida was Grandma Rose Sharpe, who had a yard filled with all kinds of neat stuff.  Fruits that were ready-to-eat and welcome-to-pick (as per Grandma's permission).  She had mangoes, figs, avocados (not sweet, but a favorite of mine), oranges, strawberries, guavas and coconuts, of course.   

She had other impressive stuff, too, like bananas (didn't like bananas, but thought they were neat-looking), key limes (sours!), and eggplants (whaaat?).  Although these latter items were not things I desired, I always thought it was so cool the way Grandma's yard and garden were so manicured.  She pampered the fruit trees that were there naturally, as well as the specialty fruits and veggies she had planted.    

In my early days, we would vacation to Tallahassee every summer, and there I remember Papa Tomberlin ( mom's bio-father) had grapevines at his place.  I would walk under them in amazement and pick-n-eat, pick-n-eat.  Yum...grapes!

Ben E. Keith, Co. http://www.benekeith.com/food/recipes/blackberry-cobbler

While in Tallahassee, the family would regularly go with my grandparents Mother and Pop Copelin and pick blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, and/or huckleberries, depending on what time of the year it was and which direction we were heading any given day.  I'd eat eat and eat as I picked and picked for that yummy cobbler that I knew was coming to Mother's table that night.  Mom would tell me, "Don't eat them faster than you pick them."  

Uncle Edward had watermelons

We'd go to my Uncle Edward's place, not far from Mother and Pop's, and get watermelons from his garden.  I was allowed my very own watermelon, and I'd pick one about the size of a volleyball--big as I could handle.  Mother would make sweet pickles out of the emptied melon rinds.  What wonderful summer days! 

The sweet advantage seemed to be everywhere I turned; from my Miami end of Florida to the Tallahassee top of it.  Even when we traveled the road one way or the other, as we approached Orlando, there, up ahead, the Citrus Tower!  The once famous landmark was surrounded by orange groves, and its appearance on the horizon was our alert that soon, we'd be picking oranges off of somebody's  trees--the fruits of somebody else's labors.  

Trespassing and picking and feasting.  This was a regular pit stop for us as we traversed the Sunshine State, and back then the oranges were fair game.  We'd pull over to the side of the highway and pick as we pleased--no law, or at least, no law around!  

I spent my early years taking all these free-growing luxuries for granted.  I was accustomed to being able to quickly satisfy my sweet tooth.

In 1969, I moved to Twilleytown, AL, where the sweets didn't grow on trees.

I was at my new friend Teresa's house one day, and saw a box in the kitchen marked MoonPie.  I asked her what that was, and she described them to me; a soft tone of amazement in her voice at my ignorance about MoonPies.  She gave me one.  I ate the thing while we walked toward my house.  I loved this MoonPie!  I'm gonna' be wanting more, too.  

We entered my house, and as I showed Teresa around our small home, she spotted the bag of lemons on the kitchen counter.
Her eyes widened and her face lighted up.  "I love lemons!" she exclaimed.  "What do you mean?" I asked.  "I love eating lemons!  They are so good with salt on 'em!"  I cringed at the thought.  I was a sweet-eater, not a sour-seeker.  I gave her a lemon.




The next day, I longed for MoonPies.  I called my friend, "Can you come up?" I asked her.  "No, I gotta' clean the house today."  Teresa was always cleaning house, making cornbread, and washing clothes.  A nine-year-old homemaker.  "You have any more MoonPies?" I inquired.  She sure did!  And I still had lemons.  And since she had to work at home today..., "let's meet halfway and swap."  We agreed; trade made.  

Turns out she always had MoonPies at her house.  I didn't know why then, except that her dad, Clyde, liked them.  I know why now, though, since I did some MoonPie research on their company website http://moonpie.com/

I found out that MoonPies were created as a "staple" for coal miners' lunchboxes, or lunch pails, in 1917.  The idea was suggested by the miners, and for the miners.  They needed something for their snack breaks, something that was tasty, satisfying, and convenient for packing and handling. 

Miner's antique lunch pail

According to the MoonPie Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/MoonPie, at the moment the miners were describing their snack of desire to MoonPie inventor Earl Mitchell, Sr., the moon was just rising.  One miner pointed at it, saying that he wanted said snack to be as big as that moon.  So the MoonPies came to be a miner's lunch pail regular.  And Teresa's father was a coal miner--an underground coal miner, in fact.

The reason we always had lemons, which we did, is not nearly as intriguing a story.  My parents went to the Farmer's Market on a regular basis, and would buy bargain crates of things that were about to be scrapped.  I knew I never saw any lemon meringue pies at my house, and maybe the occasional wedge could be seen sticking out of my mother's iced tea glass.  Other than that, I don't remember using lemons for anything except to watch them spoil on the counter top.  Now though, they had a new meaning and new value to me.  One lemon was equal to one MoonPie.

Our swap meet went on for several weeks.  We'd meet, we'd trade, and we'd sit around snacking on MoonPies and lemons.  Then came the day that I finally decided to try a salt-laden lemon for myself.  Wowee! 

PASS THE SALT, PLEEEZE!  

      

I quickly grew to love "sour".  Teresa introduced me to many other sour treats that I began to crave, too.  We'd raid the neighborhood of green plums, carrying our salt shakers with us as we made the rounds.  We knew when and where the green apples were ready to be plucked.                                 

http://www.wildharvestuk.net/hunt-and-gather-uk/

I learned of some "new" sort of apples  Teresa called crab apples, and she and I spent many an afternoon eating giant mixing bowls full of them.  We'd eat until the stomach aches came.  But oh, what joy the ache it was! 

She even turned me on to the old-timey dill pickles at Brasher's, the local clapboard general store.  The pickles were in a giant jar on the counter, and they only cost a nickel.  I'm sorry Mother, but these dills override your sweet watermelon rind pickles!  

The Canned Quilter at Hickery Holler Farm http://hickeryhollerfarm.blogspot.com/2013/07/high-canning-season.html

The following year, when I was 10 years old, my family had moved back to the Miami area for a short stint.  We relocated a lot because my stepfather Bill was in the asbestos union.  He was oftentimes also running from the law (another story).  In any case, we moved on several occasions.  By that time, I was firmly hooked on lemons, limes, anything sour.  

In Ft. Lauderdale, FL we lived in a rental, and out in the yard were the usual coconut and guava trees.  And there was a lemon tree, with lemons the size of grapefruits.  I was salivating as I picked one of the giants.  I cut it in half, then fourths, then eighths (yeah, they were that big) and doused the sections with salt.  Omigosh I loved it!  

Having eaten half of the monster, my stomach immediately
morphed into an ulcer-ridden bag of acid, but it was glorious!  The open-sore, burning feeling went away after about thirty minutes, so I ate the other half.  

I went to Grandma Rose's house, and this time, I ate her key limes like they were going out of style.  Sprinkle salt, and ahhhhh! You don't know what you're missing, Teresa!

I tried to bring a few of all these treasures back to Teresa that year, but they had shriveled by the time I was back in Twilleytown.  

I went back and forth from Alabama to south Florida over the next couple years.  Upon my return one year, Teresa and I experienced an episode of candy overload.  I came back to Twilleytown with a pocket full of baby sitting money I had earned during that trip.  It amounted to about $35, which was a lot for a twelve-year-old in 1972.  In just two or three afternoons, Teresa and I blew it all on brown paper sacs of candy (sweet and sour) treats from Brasher's.  

There we sat, at the roadside on the bank of Twilleytown Loop, glutting on the bagged goods.  Life was a treat!

So I hadn't abandoned MoonPies, or any other sweets for that matter.  I had simply taken a hiatus from them as Teresa exposed me to the sour side of life.  By then, I had acquired a wonderful balance between the sweet and the sour.  I had, thanks to Teresa, developed tastes for new flavors.  

I had learned to love treats like SWEETARTS® candies,Charms® Sour Lollipops (I think they're just "sour balls" today), and Now & Later^® green apple squares.  I likewise still enjoyed chocolate chip cookies, chocolate candy bars, chocolate brownies, pretty much chocolate anything.  I'm open minded, and open mouthed.  
  
Thank you, Teresa, for the taste bud overhaul and great snack enlightenment. 

www.cookingwithk.net/ Southern Kitchen Happenings

One snack she never got me to be interested in was buttermilk and cornbread in a glass.  That seemed to be a favorite of hers, and, as I learned, a favorite of many Southerners.  Thank you, but no thanks, good friend Teresa.     

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Christopher's on the Way

To my beloved son, Christopher Charles Lee, on his 32nd birthday:

Before I knew...

Before I found out I was actually carrying you, a small undeveloped baby boy, inside of my body, I thought I was developing a stomach ulcer.  I had sick feelings, and the only things that remedied them were glasses of milk and baked potatoes.  Pieces of dry toast, bland cereals, and other basically boring foods helped, too, as long as I ate them often throughout the days.  With all this nick-knacking I was doing, albeit bland, I was gaining weight.  My digestive system began malfunctioning.  What, oh what, could be the matter with me??  Duh!

The Tell

I went to the doctor to see what ailed me.  The doctor was Dr. Ed O'Rear, and he came into the exam room with a lighted cigarette hanging from his lips.  Okay...it's his office.  It was March of 1982.  I told him what all was going on with me, and he just told me that if I keep eating like that I will get fat.  I was already on my way.  The nurse then told me I was expecting a baby.  Although the thought had occurred to me, I was dumbfounded and happy at the same time.  I was referred to another doctor, one who was big on caring for pregnant moms and for delivering babies.  That would be Dr. N. Tom Camp, still the best doc ever, and I stuck with him for your development duration.

Your Influence on My Taste Buds

Stomach maladies quickly subsided, and I began to crave watermelon with a vengeance.  And salt.  And yeah, some cantaloupe.  Watermelon, cantaloupe, and salt everyday.  And green plums, and sour apples, and more salt.  Frank and Martha Noles, our neighbors across the street, were kind enough to say "yes" when I asked if I could pick some of their green plums off the tree beside their pond.  Poor Mr. and Mrs. Noles never got a chance at their own plums that year, because I picked them all within a couple weeks' time.

We Grow

By three months, I was already "showing".  What did I expect, since I was eating all the time?  Your dad and I were at a funeral, and a neighbor of ours, Ruth Naramore, walked over to me and whispered to my ear, "are you pregnant?"  I told her "yes", and apologetically said I was only about three months along--I felt a little guilty for having already gained enough weight to "show".  Your dad told Ruth he would have been afraid to ask a woman if she was pregnant, in case she was just plain fat.  Oh well.  I figured that, from that time onto your arrival, I would just eat whatever, since I was "eating for two".

How the Days Passed for We Two, at Home

The Television

Your dad would go to work, I would stay home and eat, and swell.  I watched a lot of television, and we had basic local TV at the time.  It was at pre-VHS and satellite ownership time.  A new Birmingham station had just started--WTTO Channel 21-- and it had some old and little-known movies and shows on it.

It also had one commercial/public service announcement that it ran over and over; a commercial I likewise loved to watch. It was sponsored by the Church of Latter Day Saints, and it ran to the song Julie Through the Glass by Carly Simon.  It was about a young mother's visions and hopes for her newborn baby, and it was played out on a stirring-to-pregnant-moms video.  The film showed the mom viewing her baby through the maternity ward glass window.  I really liked that commercial, and I have never forgotten how good it always made me feel to watch it.   

You can see the video and hear the song at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ax4EGaR-BYQ

Books About You

I bought a "baby's name" book and began thinking about the choices I had.  I thought and studied and thought.  Your dad pretty much was leaving all that to me.  I decided that if you were a boy, you would be Christopher Charles Lee, and if you were a girl, you'd be Carmen Sofia Lee.  Here's the "why" for those choices.  I wanted a "saint's" name, since I was trying to follow Catholicism norms.  Hence the "Christopher" and the "Sofia".  I chose "Charles" because of my love for my grandfather Charles "Pop" James Copelin.   The girl's "Carmen" part was just because I really loved the name--always have, and still do.

Incidentally, I liked the actor Christopher Lee, who just happened to have a striking resemblance to my own father John (J.C.) Calvin Reno.  So, I figured that Christopher would be a good choice.   Anthony and I pretty much agreed that we wouldn't let anybody call you "Chuck" or "Chris".  Oh well.  "Chris" I learned to deal with and even to use occasionally.

About the boy and girl issue:  One thing your dad was adamant about was that if you turned out to be a girl, there would be NO ear piercing until you were old enough to decide.  I was firm on the opposite, and it WAS going to happen if you were a girl.  Good thing we didn't have to come to that standoff! 

I also bought a book with "instructions" for bringing up baby.  It was a paperback that I am pretty sure was Dr. Benjamin Spock's Baby and Child Care.  I so wish I still had that book to give to you now, so you'd know where I got some of my child-rearing ideas.

I found out that I should be reading aloud to my unborn child.  So, on many nice spring and summer days, I sat outside in the yard in Rose Hill, Alabama, and read to you.  I first read excerpts from Plato's Apology of Socrates.  That didn't go over well, with me anyway.  So after a few days I switched to Two Years Before the Mast, by R. H. Dana, Jr.  It was definitely more interesting, and I still have the book--both of the books--which you should read "again" one day.

As you developed, I continued to read, but I decided you probably didn't care what the book content was, so I read anything I could get hold of.  I liked to read, always had, and I wanted you to like it, too.

Rounding Out the Summer

Food, Fat, Pains, and Projects

By five-months time, I was very plump.  Dr. Camp reprimanded me over the weight gain.  He said "your baby will only be 7-8 pounds, so you'll have all that other to lose."  His nurses, Brenda (Brenda Arnold is now a very good friend of mine) and Judy (Dr. Camp's wife and another great friend) both "fussed" and instructed me on the fact that I can't eat a whole box of Vanilla Wafers in one sitting, and that I am not really to take the saying "eating for two" literally.

I kept on snacking.  And gaining.  And consequently developed a backache all the time.  I had to get an "okay" from Dr. Camp to go see the chiropractor.  That was a relief, and the pain alleviation gave me leeway to eat more goodies.  To my sorrow, I discovered during that month that my favorite food in the world, pizza, could not be eaten.  What used to be my savory friend now gave me extremely painful cramps and severe diarrhea.  That's what you want to hear!

That was also the month, July, that your dad had the concrete truck arrive to pour his two dog kennels.  It was hot, and your dad had no help.  I normally would have been out there helping him spread the mixture as the man poured it, but I couldn't because I had been having too many pains; so many that I worried I might be in labor.  The concrete man, who only poured and wasn't permitted to help spread, asked me if I was alright, as I stood bent over on the back porch.  I was watching Anthony run, red-faced and breathless, from one kennel to the other to get the stuff worked and leveled.  I was worried about my situation that day, but I was way more worried about your dad.  I felt so helpless while he raced frantically back and forth.  He was bound and determined to get his dog kennels in, and he succeeded, and when the day was done, we were all okay.

Whew!  I was ready for you to get here!  I had done the sonar viewing, and we knew by now that you were going to be a boy.  And we knew your estimated time of arrival would be November 17th.  Hmm...

At Seven Months

September, I was with your Grandmother Shirley Lee, her friends Ann and Buck Brown, your Great Grandmother OZY, and your Uncle Dennis and Aunt Kelly.  We had gone on a trip to Panama City. Your dad didn't go because we couldn't afford for him to miss any work, and besides, he had to stay and take care of all our animals.

On that trip at the hotel is when and where I received a call from my father's wife Barbara.  I had never talked to her before, and I hadn't seen my dad since 1969, although we all had corresponded by mail a little bit.  Barbara had tracked me down to tell me of my father's death.  He had been killed, the story goes, by a car striking him as he walked down the road.  That had happened in September of 1981.  She hadn't known where to find me up until then, which I understood since we had lost contact over the previous two or three years.  She told me he was buried next to his parents in Maryville, TN.  I was seven-months pregnant with you in 1982 when I heard of my dad's death.

November 1982      

The 10th

The night I started having labor pains, I remembered the rule of "nothing to eat" once the labor started.  I obeyed, that is, until it dragged on for hours.  We went to the hospital to have you, your grandmother Shirley met us there, all excited, and...nothing.  We were sent home; me in tears for not having produced the long-awaited "package".  I sat in the living room on the sectional sofa and labored all night.  I also cheated and ate Tootsie-Pops, one after the other.

The 11th 

Towards the last couple of hours, as we knew for sure it was time to go back to the hospital, I had Anthony run and get me a pizza.  I didn't care what ill effect it was going to have at this point.  I was in pain anyway, and I was going to the hospital anyway.  For gosh sakes, get me the pizza!

Labor lasted altogether 36 hours.  When it was all said and done, and time for you to arrive, I had gained 48 pounds.  Forty-eight pounds to make a 7-pound infant.   

But you were so worth it.  As you were being born, Dr. Camp had a look on his face as if you were the first child he had ever brought into the world.  The look of sheer joy at new life was glowing from his face, and with all my fear and pain and anxiety, I treasure that moment.  When you were fully present, Dr. Camp said, "looks like you've got a girl."  "Whaaaat?" I could not believe it--I was expecting a boy, and a boy is what I wanted!  Dr. Camp was just teasing me to lighten the moment, since he of course knew what I had been expecting all along.

Right then, before the nurses' team got you, or anybody else got hold of you for the usual cleaning and measuring, he placed you onto my abdomen in the delivery room.  There you were, lying helpless and crying, while I was trying to absorb the whole idea that I had just had a baby.

The crazy and funny tales of labor and delivery are a dime a dozen.  Although having a baby is as old as life, and nothing is biologically unique about it, you, Christopher Charles Lee are a unique gift to me from God that I treasure more than any words can say.  I am grateful and proud that I have you as my son, and I will always love you.

From your mom.

Christening Day on December 19, 1982, Christopher Charles Lee, born on November 11, 1982

                                                    

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Myriapod Myriad

myriapod \'mir-ee-uh-pod\ n. a myriapod is a "bug with ten thousand legs".

myriad \ˈmir-ē-əd\ n. a very large number of things; ten thousand.

So....   Myriapod Myriad \'mir-ee-uh-pod ˈmir-ē-əd\ = 10,000 10,000.

10,000 Came

It's summertime in the Deep South.

And because of that, it will rain.

Here it comes--the rain has begun.

Steady, for five minutes.

And yep, here they come--millipedes. 

They pop out of the soil.  They creep out from under the foundation and its surrounding leaf litter.

Onset of the raid; climbing up from the foundation.

And UP, UP they drive, in droves, as if on a mission, they come literally by the thousands.  They inch up the outside of my house, up the screens around the porch, onto the porch's slab floor, and into the house.  The basement gets filled first.  Eventually they occupy the rest of the house, even up to the window sills.  I walk around the outside of the house to evaluate the invasion situation, and they are clustered in wads under the eaves of the house, all around it.  Smell that smell... 

UP, UP the outside walls

...even up to the windows...

Technically speaking, what are they?
  
The following educational information is not essential to the enjoyment or understanding of this article.  It is, however, interesting.

The genetic lineage layout of these critters goes, from top to bottom, like this:   

1. Kingdom Animalia (animals/like you and me)...
2. Phylum Arthropoda (arthropods/no internal skeleton)...
3. Subphylum Myriapoda (myriapods/bugs with ten-thousand legs), and then...
4. Class Diplopoda (diplopods/thousand-leggers)--collectively known as millipedes.      

They don't really have thousands of legs, but they can have a couple hundred.  Mine only have 60 legs. 

They eat plant materials and decaying organic matter.

All lack eyes.

Millipedes come in all sizes, but the ones in my story are about 2.5 cm (1") long, brown, and quite shiny.

Most have stink glands; hence the aforementioned smell.       

The very closely related centipedes are "hundred-leggers", but centipedes are not in this summer story.

The star--Oxidus gracilis (I think), 
or commonly called Greenhouse Millipede

What do they want?

The intelligent brains that be (the entomologists) say that the millipedes arrive regularly in autumn, and the reason they inch upward in droves is because they are in search of moisture.

Now, I always wanted to be an entomologist (bug expert), but the closest I ever got was by being a professional exterminator for 16 years.  I do, however, "hobby around" with bugs, so I know a little something about them.  And the storming pattern of these fascinating critters has in no way resembled the routine described by the intelligent brains! 

The millipedes have presented themselves to me in cycles that have been spaced apart, ten years (plus or minus), so I have gone years at a time without ever seeing any in my area.  During those 16 years of pest control in the same geographical area, there was only one year that I received scads of calls from customers needing help with millipede invasions.  Then, for a decade or so, not nary an encounter with millipedes.

Until...

Until the summer of 2004.  All that summer, my basement was jam-packed full of those things.  I sprayed chemicals inside, and I dusted with carbaryl (Sevin) outside.  That killed them, only after they all crawled up and out of the ground.  The only thing those applications do is give you big piles of dead millipedes all over the place, it doesn't prevent them from popping up out of the ground.

So as you see, this is not just a fall-of-the-year thing.  These millipedes, when it is their year, are an entire summer event.  They don't wait 'till fall.

Porch Crunch

And then came summer of 2014.  Here they all are again.  Same as in 2004.

The very first signal I got came in late May during Mass at St. Cecilia Catholic Church.  It was crawling across the floor beside me as I knelt in the pew.  And there was another on the wall, and then another.

And yes, it had rained.

Questions:  If the millipedes seek moisture, why do they flee from the ground as soon as it starts raining?  It's like they are trying to get away from moisture.  Or hey, maybe they feel it and want to rush UP to it faster.  Maybe they've felt too dry for too long.  But wait!  It's summertime in the southeastern United States.  It rains everyday.  Why do they make a beeline into my dry, dry, screened porch?...Only to die in a couple of days from the Sevin dust that I applied three weeks ago for the chipmunk ticks?

Yeah, yeah, there was a tick situation, but I nixed it.  You'll be glad to know I'm not talking about that today.

I know the questions I ask sound so layman-like, and I always liked to think of myself a little above that when it came to arthropods.  But hey, what the experts say about the millipedes' behavior is not matching their behavior here.  So I'm gonna' ask a layperson's questions.

The back porch's outside wall.  All those specs are the invaders.

Don't SLAM the porch door!  Small wad of millipedes at the top.

Meanwhile, my screened in porch floor is one solid mass of dead, crunchy millipedes.  Nowhere on it can you walk without hearing and feeling the crunch, crunch of multi-legged carcasses under foot. And incidentally, did I mention the SMELL??

Millipede pile after I swept my porch.  Card is for size comparison.  Most of the pile is millipede star of this story, but there are a couple of large ones from another order.  You'll also see a couple of pecan shells from the chipmunk problem.  There's a leaf or two.  And yeah, there is some dust!

Dead and Plenty

By the close of this "occupation", I will have witnessed the slow demise of many a Myria-clan member.  For instance, death at the hungry venom-filled whims of the webbed house spider invaders that I have allowed to settle in the corners of my home.  Many more of the millipedes will fall victim to my hands, either by chemical applications or the good ole' mash-effect.

I'm sitting in my living room by an open window, enjoying the rain sounds.  The screen is suddenly covered with millipedes.  With a single flick of my finger I thump the screen, thereby ejecting a hundred millipedes.  They uncontrollably fly out and away.  They come back in less than five minutes, only to be bounced again.  They keep crawling back because they must enjoy the thrill of the jettison.

A few have made it past the screen, and are checking out the window sill beside me.  I mash one with a paper towel.  Five minutes go by and I mash another.  In five more minutes I mash a third.

I discovered if you mash three or four of them within 12" of where you are seated, that in less than 10 minutes you will not only smell an extremely strong turpentine-like odor, you will also taste it on your tongue.  Mash a few more, and you'll feel it in your throat.   

I read that some very large species actually squirt their secretions out at their attacker, and that information makes me look at my own millipede situation with gladness; joy even.

They are so plentiful outside that when I arrive home and step out of my car, my senses are assaulted with turpentine sensation--from the living and from their deceased brethren.  You'd think I had a dead body lying around out there somewhere. 

You might already know, if you read my blog, that I can fill several pages with one smell .    
Aside from spiders, chemicals, and the "mash", many of the millipedes seem just plain suicidal.  By that I mean that they come in, head straight for a dark, dank corner of the basement, and wait to die--as if they have just given up on life.

   Final stop for some:  A basement corner with mold and mycelium hyphae (fungus), 
which I will eliminate after the millipede season has passed.  

On the lighter side, most of them will return to their obscure, hidden places after the sun comes out, and after the rains subside.  They retreat so as to wait until the next rain comes, and then it will all happen again--the millipede uprising.  Over and over, rain in and rain out.

VALUE$

After a couple of months of listening to me gripe about the millipede invasion, Joe is sympathetic to my annoyance at the intrusion of thousands.  But they have not bothered him to the gripe-point as they have me.  He has crunched his way over many a sheet of millipede carcasses without uttering a complaint.  His nose isn't as powerful as mine either, so he isn't aware of their odoriferous qualities.

One night, I'm surfing the internet and Joe is sitting over there in his recliner.  I search the web with the line "how to use a millipede".  The next interaction happened in a blast of an instant--a hilarious instant.

"I just found a new use for millipedes," I announced to Joe.

I didn't exactly mean to say "new use" because I had just read that it was a long-time behavior of Capuchin monkeys of Venezuela to smear millipedes all over their bodies to act as an insect repellent.  In my mind, I had discovered a new and natural product to help us with mosquitoes that plague our own yard.  So it was only new to me.  The "new use" part slipped out of my mouth and made it sound like millipedes were really a valuable asset, and that we had been truly blessed.  The way Joe heard me, in that one little sentence "I just found a new use for millipedes", he automatically deduced that the things I formerly complained about were now financially worth something to us.    

"Well we're one shy!" he stressed harshly as he flipped the recliner upright.  What did I hear?  Is he on the defensive?  "I just flushed one down the toilet!" he quickly barked.  I began laughing uncontrollably at this point, because I knew he had wrongly deduced that I now appreciated that the millipedes were here.  "Well, I f#ck#d up!" he sharply apologized, knowing I would become more hysterical with laughter.  After I told him, with broken breaths, the monkey and mosquito repellent thing, he starts with the "Why are the big ones the centipedes and the little ones the millipedes?!" (he's mistaken, by the way).  He is stirred up now--angry at the bug world.  This conversation is making him think about the mosquitoes and ticks that have likewise been giving us much grief this summer.  I am laughing again.  I am trying to type what he is saying and he knows that's what I'm doing.  I say "slow down so I can type you," and "you say such funny things!"  His profound response, "I need a scribe like David to follow me around."

I digress.

So they DO have market value, but not in Alabama.  And they DO have some natural predators in the world, like my house spiders, for instance.  Many other types of "bugs" eat them, too.  And birds, toads, and several other animals are natural enemies to the millipedes.  We know monkeys, right?  Although they don't prey upon the millipedes to eat them, they just use them.  If we had the same millipedes here that are in the Venezuelan rainforest, we'd also have Capuchins here to wear them.  Our millipedes just aren't as good as the ones in Venezuela.  

        This large millipede from a different order is not a member of the invading hoard.  These are occasional visitors.  Also harmless, but they leave a red, smelly puddle-of-a-mess when they die.  So rancid are they that the flies move in for a feast and an egg-laying frenzy. 

I Don't Really Fight It

As I mentioned before, applying chemicals so many times just leaves you with a bunch of carcasses.  The best way to fight the millipede invasions at your place is to clean up the leaf litter and other organic matter around your house's foundation.  Unfortunately, that also means getting rid of any of that fancy mulch you have applied to adjacent flower or shrub beds.  If you want to apply chemicals, there are things you can get over the counter.  Some of the best on the current market are Bifenthrin granules.  You can also get spray formulas such as Deltamethrin or Cypermethrin, or you can apply more eco-friendly sounding applications that are available; comprised of things like clove and thyme oils.  No matter what type you use, always follow manufacturer's directions. 

Why don't I clean up my yard to ward them off?  I guess I get too much enjoyment out of them.  I like watching the spiders get them, and I like flicking them off the screens.  I like counting them and snapping their photos.  I like complaining about them.  And crunching them.  And mashing them.  And smelling them.
 

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It Smells of Nostalgia

A few weeks ago as I walked downstairs into my basement, I picked up a musty-like waft of odor that gave me sudden feel of nostalgia.  A quick, but strange comfort came over me. I didn't know why, and it was gone as quickly as it had come.  Both the feeling and the smelly waft were gone.  I went about my business in the basement.

There it was again!  The smell.  It was not a "good" or a "nice" odor.  As a matter of fact, it would have been "bad" had it been amplified many times.  I hadn't identified it yet, as I had only grasped a fleeting whiff, but it was, for sure, there again.  And for sure, it was gone again.  It came and went so fast, but this time the nostalgic feeling stayed.  Why did that odor give me a feel of bygone comfort?  And by the way, what was that smell?

A day or two went by.  I take something down to the basement.  There's the fly-by odor again, and before it got away from me this time, the answer to my déjà vu hit me.  Tennessee...my Mamaw Reno!  NOOO, she didn't smell like that, but that is an aroma I associate with all my wonderful childhood visits to Tennessee to see Mamaw and all the Reno relatives. 
  

Mamaw Tressie Lee Reno--April 1964

                                                                     
When I was a kid we would go see my dad's mom and family in Townsend, TN outside of Maryville and adjacent to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.  I joyfully remember those road trips--as we were heading out of Miami, Mom would turn around from the front seat and tell me "we're going to the mountains"!  I knew that meant joyful times ahead.  We would always (it seemed) stop on the way at Suwannee River State Park to have a picnic lunch.  My sister Colleen went with us sometimes on those trips, but for most of them she stayed with her dad's mom, Grandma Rose, a grandma I also loved very much.  

As I stand in the stairwell, registering the aroma and connecting it to memory, the warm thoughts of staying at Mamaw's are upon me.  I remember Mamaw's house.  It was a wood frame house with a long porch.  It had two front doors, as did many houses built back in the late 1800s-early 1900s.  It had unpainted hardwood floors and walls.  It was a fantasy house to me, and that it had no indoor plumbing added to the "dream house" effect for me.  

Tammy (left) and I sitting on Mamaw's front porch--April 1964

Bedtime was extra special, too.  My little cousin Tammy and I would be put into an old-timey bed with a charming hand-made quilt over us, "now I lay me down to sleep..." having been prayed, a chamber pot under the bed, and my Teddy Bear on the pillow between our heads.  The Teddy Bear that Daddy gave me played Brahms' Lullaby when you wound him up.  Tammy was a delight to me as she giggled every time I turned the key to play the bear's tune.  Her giggling made me giggle, and so we giggled ourselves to sleep in Mamaw's wonderful old house in Tennessee.
                                                   

  

 http://www.pinterest.com/pin/465841155176565737/

      Chamber pot under the bed 



Oh yes, I loved that concept!  Being a kid living in the early 1960s Miami, of course we had an indoor toilet.  But Mamaw did not have one.  Going to Mamaw's was a comfort, a joy, and an adventure!  She had chamber pots for the night time, and an outhouse for the day time.  An outhouse!!  It was a genuine thrill for me to go to the outhouse. 

                                 

Aunt Betty Curtis (dad's sister) with her kids Patsy, who is holding little Tammy, and their brother Mike.  I am the one standing directly in from of my aunt.  See the outhouse in the background.  It is also in the photo of Mamaw pictured above

Thrilling as it was, it was also a little scary to close that outhouse door behind me.  Once inside, I would ponder the gaping hole that opened to the dark, perilous mystery below.  Yes, I did have mild reservations about falling through that big hole, but since Mom or my Aunt Betty always escorted me, I got past the fear and enjoyed the outhouse effect.  What a wonderful vacation it was to be in Tennessee at Mamaw's!  And meshed in with all that wonder and joy and comfort is that aroma.  

C'est l'odeur.

Time has passed by, and I am grown up and at my adult home.  I enjoyed the reminiscent whiffs for a week or so, off and on, until the once faint odor gradually grew stronger.  It became an entity of its own, and took over and away any pleasant déjà vu I had experienced.  Nostalgia now displaced, I knew the reality that there was either a septic tank problem or a sewage leak under the house.  I went into the crawlspace to see what the situation was.  There, under the bathroom--a drip--at the base of the toilet.  That drip had now developed into a gnarly pool of sewage adjacent to the basement.  Ugh! 
                                    

Tammy (age 3) and me (age 5)--April 1964

On another note, I still have the Teddy Bear.  He's in the smelly basement.

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