Creepy-Crawly Concerns

Esmerelda outside of Hydrangea

Here on Cherrymont Farm in southern Pennsylvania I'm currently residing in a cabin known as Hydrangea House – named for the flowers that surround it – a wooden structure roughly 10x10 feet built in the early 1900s. There's a loft for sleeping, so the floorspace of the cabin feels pretty roomy. A small round table covered by an patterned Indian cloth sits in front of large windows where I procrastinate from working on the second draft of my novel by looking out at the lush green grass and autumn fireworks. This morning I woke to a lovely romantic mist creating chiaroscuro haze in the treetops visible from the high window of Hydrangea that ventilates the loft.

But it is awfully rustic here, which is saying something after a year on an off-grid homestead in Montana. While I have electricity in the cabin – supplied by a power strip plugged into a heavy-duty extension cord that runs from the main house – the bathroom facilities are in the big house or the outhouse, both a mere 20 second walk away. Last time I was here I didn't recall being quite so entrenched in nature, but that was in the dead of winter, when buggies go dormant. I'm no longer super squeamish about insects and vermin, but I do have a few creepy-crawly concerns.

My workspace. Pity me.

Yesterday there were three hornets inside the cabin. I let them be because I don't like to interact with stinging-things if I don't have to. Especially in a magazine-wielding capacity – if I miss my target, things could get ugly. That was probably not a great idea though, as they were poking around the joint like prospective real estate buyers. One hornet made the mistake of landing in my bed last night though, so I killed it. That's the deal I have with the bugs in Hydrangea – stay away from my bed and I'll most likely leave you alone. Come near my bed and you forfeit your life. I think it's a reasonable request.

The stink bugs are just irritating. I don't remember them ever being this prolific in my southern childhood. They stink differently too, a mix between cheap cologne and musty farts. They're beginning to look for cozy places to spend the winter, which they often believe is my bed – and they'd be right if it weren't for me. Every night before I go to sleep I have to sift through three layers of covers and flick the stinkers away. The other night I had to evict ten from their blanket fort. They're harder to kill because I don't want to squash them in the bedding, so they generally escape with what is essentially a good spanking. Last night I didn't find any, so maybe they're learning.

I'm also certain I have at least one rodent friend in the cabin. Sometimes the scratching around in the ceiling wakes me from a dead sleep at night, and I've found mutilated pieces of tissue on the built-in counter top. As long as I don't die of the Hanta virus, I suppose it'll be okay.

The view from the loft

I don't really mind the spiders – they eat other bugs and tend to keep to themselves. For a while I had an orb weaver (non-poisonous, I looked it up) the size of a 50 cent piece who built her large, luxurious web just off the loft. She freaked me out at first, but the night she moved in there were so many mosquitoes in the cabin that I let her do her thing. I named her Edwina and told her that as long as she stayed away from my bed we could live in harmony. Edwina hung out for a week and then disappeared one day. I was sad to see her go, I'd become quite fond of her company and bug-disposal services.

I believe Edwina's departure marks the beginning of the bug hibernation sequence. So while I'm enjoying this bit of Indian summer, it will be nice when the chilly weather drives all the winged creatures dormant. The mice, well, I might just have to accept them as my cabin companions through the colder months. But it's worth it for the tranquility and regular impromptu dinner parties Cherrymont is famous for.