The doorbell rang. I looked through the window and then stepped onto the porch, where a lanky young man in navy shirt and khakis greeted me. “Hi. My name is Kevin. I wanted to let you know about some work being done on your street tomorrow.”
Road work maybe?
“Your neighbor has a pest problem.”
And I’m sure she appreciates it being advertised.
“We’re helping her. We could help you, too.”
“We’re fine,” I replied. “We don’t have bugs.”
Not a single palmetto bug (giant cockroach). We don’t eat meat, so there’s no carrion smell. We remove the cat dishes as soon as the animals finish eating; wash the dishes before going to bed; take out the trash each evening.
“We do outdoor pests too,” he says. “Get rid of wasps.”
He’s noticed the hive at the garage door.
“The umbrella wasps?!” I picture their home being destroyed, just as they’re completing their work for the season. “They’re docile.” I wave toward the yard. “I planted all of these flowers for the pollinators!”
“A lot of people think wasps are pollinators,” he continues. “But that isn’t true.”
I know, I know. They’re primarily predators. But they do pollinate inadvertently as they hunt.
“I like the bees and the wasps,” I state flatly.
“We can treat the yard. It’s not a spray. We apply granules…”
And annihilate anything above and below the sod.
I’ve been planting all season. Know for a fact there is no “problem” lurking in the earth. Found a single pupal case, and plenty of earthworms.
I shake my head. Frown in repulsion. “I’m not at war with insects.”
The man retreats without leaving a card.
But I’m left disturbed. Are my neighbors so fearful of the small creatures around them – of any sign of life – that they’d decimate the lot? And with it the balance that keeps us healthy?
Now, I understand why my island habitat is filling so quickly. It’s surrounded by a desert of poisoned sod grass.
And I encounter new immigrants each morning. Sweat bees and skinks. Spiders and monarchs. I can see that my work goes beyond its original intent of adding color to the lawn and repairing bare spots. The hours I spend serve so many – the earthworms, fungi, and beneficial bacterium beneath the soil; the plants; every type of insect imaginable; birds and scurrying reptiles; as well as neighbors who drive slowly by or stop on the sidewalk, to take in the floral painting and gymnastic bumble bees.
This mini-park of mine is slowly reintroducing others to the intricacies of life. And they can see, as I reach among the branches, there’s little chance of harm.
I feel hopeful when they ask what is this plant or that; nod and say, “Maybe I’ll plant one.” Because that’s how it starts. One plant, then two. And as one is drawn into miniature worlds, a desire grows to offer more. To give all that one can. To treat the earth’s wounds and allow them to heal.
Image by Brett Hondow from Pixabay
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