The Marching of the Army Worms


We moved into a beautiful new home last September. Although this is a great time of year to move (non-adjacent to major holidays, generally good weather, none of your friends can claim they are “away on vacation” to get out of helping you), but it is not a good time of year for sod. The end of September is generally right before our first freeze in Tennessee.

This has resulted in my husband (who previously gave not a crap about our yard) becoming nearly obsessive about his yard. He has over-seeded the lawn with various concoctions recommended by sundry sources. We have now bought a John Deere Tractor, a seed spreader, a pricey zero-turn mower and various other lawn care implements.

I have had to listen to a barrage of “Do you think my grass is growing?” and “What do you think of my grass?” and “Does the grass look good?” and “Have you looked at my grass?” endlessly, till I want to throttle him.

So, imagine my surprise surrounding events of this week. Wednesday morning I let the dog outside and step out into my lush yard only to notice brown spots everywhere and upon closer examination I see them: ARMY WORMS.

It was like a whisper, a hushed idea in my brain. First, people on the news were talking about these things, but that was an abstract concept. This happened to other people’s yards, not my yard. Then, an overheard conversation about a coworker’s ruined yard, but that was them not me. So, I knew when I saw the dreaded ARMY WORMS that my husband was going to FREAK OUT.

I ran back inside to wake him with the news of our latest crisis. I felt like Laura Ingalls Wilder on that episode of Little House where her and Almanzo were trying to save their first crop from the locusts and they were both exhausted in the fields with torches in their hands, but their corn died anyways. Considering my husband’s reaction to imagined threats to his yard, I braced myself for his reaction to a real threat. What I was met with was the statement, “Can I sleep twenty more minutes?”

Color me irritated. First of all, I am a good country girl, and as all good country girls know, you need some malathion around. For the uninitiated malathion is poison. It pretty much kills any bug, or creepy crawly anytime, anywhere. But, when we were moving, my husband insisted that we get rid of my malathion. He will tell you that it is because I spilt it in the garage…. twice… ,but that isn’t the reason. It is because I married a socially conscious, granola loving, Yankee who doesn’t appreciate the importance of real poison. He said things like, “I don’t want that poison around you while you’re nursing.” Personally, I believe that poison will make the baby tougher and more resistant to insects.

So who ended up driving to three different stores in the next town over to get a less deadly insect poison? This girl. I will say that my Hubby donned the backpack sprayer like Almanzo did in that one episode of Little House with the boll weevils and saved our sod. My hero.


8 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Underdaddy
    Sep 23, 2014 @ 21:33:30

    I totally read those books. I remember them putting splashes of water on the sprouts to keep them alive. Good call on the comparison. I’m not looking very manly though….


  2. bjsscribbles
    Oct 19, 2014 @ 06:43:13

    I enjoyed reading your stories thank you for finding and following my blog


  3. Russel Ray Photos
    Oct 20, 2014 @ 17:26:11

    Thanks for letting me camp out in your blog for a little while today. I had a great time and tried to leave my campsite as good as when I arrived. I’m following you, so I’ll be back!


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