Returning to the house over the Columbus Day weekend was like coming home. Michigan’s Upper Peninsula felt so much more welcoming than the flatlands of Central Illinois we had left ten hours previously.
The journey up went without incident. We arrived as the sun was dipping to the western horizon; just enough light to unload the car, throw the power switch, and crank up the central heating.
At first, the four or five flies buzzing round the kitchen didn’t seem much of a problem. Like many Americans, Trish is twitchy about insects indoors, but I ignored them and carried on unpacking. Coming from Britain, where screens are only to be found in cinemas, or, when taking a bath in the parlour, and summer insects fly happily in and out through open windows, I wasn’t too concerned by a few houseflies. It was only when I went to check out the attic room beyond the first floor bedroom, and was greeted by a noise similar to a hive of angry bees, that I realized all was not as it should be.
The one small window at the far end of the attic was black with pulsating, frenzied, winged creatures vying for an exit. The window doesn’t open. Hundreds of dead, black, bodies littered the floorboards, evidence of the many who’d given up trying. I hurriedly closed the door and headed back downstairs.
By now, there were eight flies in the kitchen and Trish was looking agitated. I plugged in the Dyson vacuum, loosed the hose, and began hoovering up the intruders. No sooner were the eight incarcerated than three more appeared, apparently from nowhere.
As the sun disappeared the flies became less numerous and we were able to turn our attention to other matters. Blow-up Bertha had been kind to us. She was still well inflated and took only five minutes with the electric pump to resume her former glory. Sadly, she was as exuberantly noisy as ever.
We spent a restless night, each waking the other as Bertha complained stridently whenever either of us dared move a muscle, or ease a limb tingling from cut-off circulation. Consequently, the morrow’s strategy of rising early, driving to Marquette and hiring a carpet cleaner, was doomed to failure. It was after nine before either of us opened our eyes sufficient to consider dragging ourselves out of bed.
Besides, the fly problem needed urgent assessment. A change of strategy was devised. We would have breakfast, go to the town, and buy lots of fly spray and an insect fogger to fumigate the attic room.
Before leaving, I searched the attic bedroom and found a half-used can of fly-spray in a cupboard. Obviously, the previous owners had suffered a similar problem. I took a deep breath, ran into the attic room, and released most of the contents at the heaving mass on the attic window, before diving back through the door, gasping for air.
Outside, the walls of the house resembled a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s, “The Birds.” Except, it wasn’t birds massing in the trees, but flies all over the house walls. Hundreds of them, particularly on the south-facing back wall, which was warmed by the morning sunshine.
October in the U.P. means low nighttime temperatures. We could only presume this had caused the creatures to migrate from the forest, seeking warmth. A nice sunny house wall was a temporary abode and there were numerous gaps under the eaves providing access for something as small as a housefly. The attic insulation is under the roof, allowing warm air to rise and heat the upper rooms, providing a cosy sanctuary for our shivering, though unwelcome, guests.
By the time we returned from Marquette, the only sign of movement in the attic was a solitary fly staggering round in ever-decreasing circles before it tripped over its own legs, flipped on its back, and emitted a brief, momentary, buzz prior to expiring.
It hardly seemed worth activating the fogger, but – what the hell, I did it anyway. Hopefully, it would take out any late intruders. First, I fetched the Dyson from downstairs and vacuumed up the hundreds of bodies.
Next day, there was hardly a fly to be seen. By midday, maybe a dozen were gathered on the south wall, but none invaded the attic and the floor was still bereft of bodies despite the efforts of the fogger.
Trish’s back was playing up and I left her at the house and drove into Marquette to see the plumbers. We wouldn’t be able to visit the house again until March, so having it winterized was imperative.
The staff couldn’t have been nicer, and agreed to do the job before the end of the week. I left a key and returned to the house, stopping on the way to take some photographs of the area. It wasn’t until I uploaded them to the laptop that it became obvious the image size was too small. I’d been playing with the camera the previous week and must have altered the setting without realizing. Consequently, they won’t enlarge very much.
The road into Marquette provides some quite stunning scenery and the autumn colors are spectacular. We were probably a week late for the best of it, the birches were already denuded, but even so it was glorious to behold. Clicking on the images will enlarge them some.
Lake Superior isn’t quite capable of providing a paradise for surfers, but with the wind at her back she makes a valiant effort. The town of Marquette is spread across the center of the image, with the old iron ore jetty visible just right of center, and I believe the chimneys to the left are part of the power station.
Back at the house, Trish was still resting, so after lunch I set off to walk the woods a way. A trail led east from the garage and I followed it to a small creek that flows through the property.
The trail was quite overgrown and it was obvious the woodland was in need of some urgent management. I headed off the trail in a northerly direction. Well, there was no way I could get lost. After all, it was only forty acres.
I had a trusty walking stick in one hand and a brand new 12-gauge shotgun in the other. Now, regular readers of Sparrow Chat (see sidebar) will be well aware of my low opinion of firearms and may well wonder why I’m carrying one. The reason is simple. I have no wish to be eaten. Michigan is home to around 19,000 black bears, most of them on the U.P., and while the majority are shy and retiring, one can occasionally meet one that isn’t. Timber wolves are also resident, though much rarer. In 2001, 278 were counted, and the latest available figure (2007) showed an increase to 509. The animal was once extinct in this area, but numbers are again steadily increasing.
I certainly have no intention of ever harming these magnificent creatures, but in the remote likelihood one may not feel so benevolent towards me, a shot over the head would hopefully change its mind.
Given the circumstances, and the fact I hadn’t fired a shotgun for forty years, it seemed best to find an isolated spot and fire off a few cartridges. There’s little point having a gun for defense if you’ve no idea how to use it, if needed.
Needless to say, the gun performed admirably, which is more than can be said for my shoulder. Making a mental note to purchase a recoil pad, I turned to retrace my steps.
Now, where was that darned trail? Surely, it was just over here by those……trees? Heavily wooded areas do tend to contain lots of trees, and one tree looks remarkably like another.
Eventually, I had to admit I was lost. No panic, a good woodsman never ventures out without a compass. I pulled the little instrument from my pocket and watched as the needle swung round and settled. Now, which end of the needle is it that faces north?
It wasn’t quite forty years since I’d last used a compass, but in the disorientating heart of a Michigan forest, it certainly seemed that way.
Finally, I got a grasp of the situation and plodded through undergrowth until the little creek appeared. By following it I reached the trail, and was soon safely back on our front lawn.
It comes to something when you get lost in your own back yard, I thought wryly, heading in for a much needed cup of tea.
Next day, we were due to leave and return to Illinois. It would be five months, at least, before we visited our “100-Acre Wood House” again. Amazingly, there wasn’t a housefly to be seen. I busied myself packing the car and checking the windows, while Trish showered and performed all those mysterious womanly antics in the bathroom that take forever and cause men such frustration, as they’ve no idea what can possibly take so long.
Finally, we were ready to leave. I made a final visit to the bathroom, and then left Trish to do the same while I transported all those ‘last-minute’ things to the car. Lastly, I threw the main power switch in the basement, then it was into the car and a sad farewell to the house that, by the time we return, will only be weeks away from becoming our permanent home.
It was about three hundred miles and five hours later that my brain suddenly flashed up an image of me, earlier that morning, passing the bathroom door and noticing the window slightly ajar. It was just after Trish had had her shower and the room was all steamy.
“You did close the bathroom window?” I said, sensing a slight griping in my nether regions.
“No,” I heard my wife reply, “I assumed you did.”
