The trouble with summer in South Florida, if you can ignore the heat, the humidity and the traffic, is the mosquitoes.
It may be my imagination but it seems like the critters are larger, more numerous and way more aggressive than when I was a kid. The mosquitoes that make it impossible for me to go outside at dusk not only bite me, they also chase me. The singular experience of being pursued by a swarm of hungry mosquitoes is part of what gives life in South Florida its unique charm. Add the existential threat of contracting Zika or the West Nile virus and it’s amazing that any of us voluntarily choose to live here.
It does not help that my neighbor has a veritable bromeliad farm in his densely overgrown yard; these plants each store gallons of water between their leaves, and every time it rains each plant becomes an incubator for millions of mosquitos that breed lustily and relentlessly, spilling over into my yard.
I read recently that they have started a major mosquito eradication project in Miami-Dade County to slow the progression of Zika; it reminded me of when “fogger trucks” were a fact of life in Fort Lauderdale. In the 60’s and 70’s, these trucks sprayed a dense, white fog of mosquito repellent, covering neighborhoods with a thick cloud of insecticide and reducing visibility to near-zero for vehicles unlucky enough to be behind them.
Highly efficient, this insecticide killed every mosquito for miles, along with all other insects, most lizards, low-flying songbirds and the occasional elderly person with pulmonary disease. But there were no mosquitoes. This was regarded as progress.
Looking back, I have no idea what they were spraying. It may have been straight DDT for all I know, but I know that after a summer of mosquito spraying it was not unusual to discover 6-legged frogs in the backyard.
In those days, houses were not air-conditioned. Our house, for example, had banks of floor-to-ceiling jalousie windows in every room; these windows were opened and closed slowly and laboriously. Once or twice a month the idyllic quiet of the summer afternoon was broken by the sound of kids on bicycles riding down the street like modern day Paul Reveres, shouting “Fogger!” at the top of their lungs.
This was a call to action. All available hands were roused to close the windows as quickly as possible, because if the insecticide got side, it remained there for days, hovering like a mist and permeating any fabric with a metallic, medicinal smell. When this happened the entire family would walk around for days afterward, with subtle headaches and a vague feeling of well-being. When Mrs. Hendricks down the street was reputed to have given birth to a daughter with a tail, it was just assumed that that’s what she got for keeping her windows open when the fogger truck rolled by.
Once the windows were closed we waited, sweltering in the summer heat; we knew the threat had passed when we saw Jimmy-Bill Brook ride by; Jimmy spent his days following the fogger on his bike. Are you surprised that he eventually graduated to sniffing household solvents and then cocaine before starting his career in politics?
Certainly no one wants to contract the Zika or West Nile viruses, but knowing what I know now I have to question the wisdom of gassing entire neighborhoods as part of a mosquito eradication program. My fear is that we’ll eradicate mosquitos and Zika and next year see a headline that reads:
“Deadly new virus identified! Avoid contact with 6-legged frogs!”