You Haven't Lived

You haven't lived until you have pulled hubby in his truck tractor outta the mud they got stuck in.
With the pickup truck and some rope.
On a dark empty road.
At midnight.
In your jammies.
At the end of a very long, stressful day.
And he has three hours of work before bed.
Tomorrow begins at 5AM.
Yes, well.

Picking Potato Bugs, and Associated Thoughts

Colorado Potato Beetles.  We just called 'em potato bugs.  Needing no encouragement, within a week or so they would decimate our little potato crop by eating all the plants' greenery right down to the stalk.

I remember Daddy walking the rows of Mama's large garden with a bag of lime, dusting the plants.  That helped, and Mama's potato patch was too large to pick the bugs off each plant.  I remember Grandma strolling through the garden at dusk, when the cool air brought the beetles to the top of the plants, catching the ones within reach between her thumb and forefinger and squishing them.  Ewww.  And the ever present apron was there to wipe her fingers for the next round.

That first year on my own, the beetles caught me unawares, and a row of stalks was all my inaugural garden produced.  After that, I picked them off the plants by hand.  It was kind of fun, actually, to search them out. Collected in a paper bag, disposal was the simple matter of striking a match and the beetles were history.

When our children came along, most of them delighted in picking the bugs.  Either way, it was a necessity for healthy plants.  Never could we catch them all; the next near always brought more.  We discussed the mystery of where they come from and how they survived winter and the garden being plowed.  A friend, we learned, actually paid her children a penny for each potato beetle lifted from her potato plants.  Fine for her, but no way was I taking time to count those little critters - may as well just glean them myself!

Last night, at dusk, I walked through the evening's damp grass to dump vintage leftovers from my fridge on the garbage pile.  Noticing the bushy potato plants beginning to bloom, I strolled down the rows looking for potato beetles. (I have become my Grandma!)

A thought settled down around me, as surely as the gathering darkness on the garden.  The mature beetles, those rounded stripedy hard shelled crawlers, would sense my hand hovering over them, and drop.  Drawing in their legs, they would fall like miniature marbles and roll into a crevice of garden dirt, out of sight and reach.  To outwit them, the container needed to be first slid under the leaf to which they were clinging, so they would drop into the container instead.

The immature hatchlings and "teenagers" could be picked off the leaves, or brushed into the container.  A light touch was necessary, to avoid them squishing.

Notice I am mentioning a container here.  Not a thumb, forefinger, and apron!

The underside of leaves where clusters of bright yellow eggs were laid were easily managed by folding the leaf in half and pressing the two sides together.

Immature potato beetles have one goal and one only.  Eat. As much as possible, as fast as possible. Nothing else matters but their insatiable appetites.  They are oblivious to danger of any sort.

The mature adults, however, have a different outlook.  That of preserving their lives.  Any shadow, be it a hovering hand or a cloud, sends a danger warning, and they drop.  No, they do not sound the alarm to others of their kind, but instinctively act in their own defense.

So like the human variety.  When young, our own desires are paramount.  We have limited ability to see the future.  We value instant gratification over planning ahead.

With age comes experience, and hopefully wisdom.  The ability to see where we've been and where we are going.  Wisdom to sense the clouds of danger overhead.  And unlike those beetles, care enough to warn those around us of the threatening shadows.

Yes, I will continue to pick potato "bugs".  But the memories will walk the garden rows along with me.  And just maybe, a bit of wisdom will join us.