Category Archives: flying

On instinct

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There was a short piece on the main editorial page of the New York Times (Sept 3, 2013) called “Empty Barn-Rafters” that discussed the recent departure of one man’s barn swallows. I have swallows as well which live on my back porch during the spring and early summer. They work tirelessly to build their nest on top of the large round thermometer which hangs just inside the overhang which shades the back porch. After they have built their nest, they proceed to raise a couple of broods of chicks. By the time the second group fledge towards the end of June, they are tired–pooped out, literally. I would know because I’m the guy who cleans up the poop.They spend the rest of summer eating and playing, swooping across the summer sky, defying the laws of physics, hanging in the air, sitting on the power lines, contemplating the world from their high perches. Yet, as the Times writer so apply described, at some point in the late summer, they just up and leave all at once–no stragglers allowed. Of course, we describe swallow behavior, their nest building, the fledging of their young, their migration habits, as instinct, mostly because we understand so little about the actual mechanisms which drive them to be swallows. Ornithologists have their theories and hypothesis about how the birds do what they do, but I prefer to simply think of them as neighbors, not the subjects of my latest study. People have neighbors, and sometimes those neighbors are not the two-legged variety. The swallows that nest on my porch don’t talk to me, but they do keep me company from about mid-March to about the end of August, but then one afternoon they just simply aren’t there–the editorialist got it exactly right. My back porch is now empty. When this happens, as it must each year, I take down the used nest, wash away the mud and eliminate all traces that the birds have been here, but not because I mind their presence, but because the empty nest reminds me that my bird neighbors are off to their winter roosts in Latin America somewhere. I like to imagine that my counterpart in Costa Rica has just noticed that his swallows have returned to winter in his backyard, happy they are back, delighted to see those sleek, dark forms sliding across the sky. I am sure that there is some absolutely logical and sensible reason which explains how the swallows know when to leave. At some point each summer, they get together, discuss a departure day, agree on a date, and then leave all together, leaving my porch and yard a very empty place. Since I travel a great deal, gone for extended periods, I cannot have my own domestic pets, so I allow my swallows a bit of space to nest and live. I know summer is over when their small, sleek forms are just gone. A quiet falls over the place, the pigeons, the grackles, the cardinals, don’t move on, but they don’t really keep me company either–they never get that close. As fall and winter set in during the next few weeks, the waiting begins. About six months from now, they will be back, and on a cool, windy, rainy day in March, a small, sleek, dark figure will flash past my window to let me know that vacation is over, and their work has just begun.

On instinct

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There was a short piece on the main editorial page of the New York Times (Sept 3, 2013) called “Empty Barn-Rafters” that discussed the recent departure of one man’s barn swallows. I have swallows as well which live on my back porch during the spring and early summer. They work tirelessly to build their nest on top of the large round thermometer which hangs just inside the overhang which shades the back porch. After they have built their nest, they proceed to raise a couple of broods of chicks. By the time the second group fledge towards the end of June, they are tired–pooped out, literally. I would know because I’m the guy who cleans up the poop.They spend the rest of summer eating and playing, swooping across the summer sky, defying the laws of physics, hanging in the air, sitting on the power lines, contemplating the world from their high perches. Yet, as the Times writer so apply described, at some point in the late summer, they just up and leave all at once–no stragglers allowed. Of course, we describe swallow behavior, their nest building, the fledging of their young, their migration habits, as instinct, mostly because we understand so little about the actual mechanisms which drive them to be swallows. Ornithologists have their theories and hypothesis about how the birds do what they do, but I prefer to simply think of them as neighbors, not the subjects of my latest study. People have neighbors, and sometimes those neighbors are not the two-legged variety. The swallows that nest on my porch don’t talk to me, but they do keep me company from about mid-March to about the end of August, but then one afternoon they just simply aren’t there–the editorialist got it exactly right. My back porch is now empty. When this happens, as it must each year, I take down the used nest, wash away the mud and eliminate all traces that the birds have been here, but not because I mind their presence, but because the empty nest reminds me that my bird neighbors are off to their winter roosts in Latin America somewhere. I like to imagine that my counterpart in Costa Rica has just noticed that his swallows have returned to winter in his backyard, happy they are back, delighted to see those sleek, dark forms sliding across the sky. I am sure that there is some absolutely logical and sensible reason which explains how the swallows know when to leave. At some point each summer, they get together, discuss a departure day, agree on a date, and then leave all together, leaving my porch and yard a very empty place. Since I travel a great deal, gone for extended periods, I cannot have my own domestic pets, so I allow my swallows a bit of space to nest and live. I know summer is over when their small, sleek forms are just gone. A quiet falls over the place, the pigeons, the grackles, the cardinals, don’t move on, but they don’t really keep me company either–they never get that close. As fall and winter set in during the next few weeks, the waiting begins. About six months from now, they will be back, and on a cool, windy, rainy day in March, a small, sleek, dark figure will flash past my window to let me know that vacation is over, and their work has just begun.

On Peru

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Getting from my hotel in Miraflores (Lima) to my hotel in Urubamba was quite a journey, involving a tour bus, an airplane, another tour bus, a home cooked meal, a weaving demonstration, a dirt road, and an indeterminate number of switchbacks and potholes which finally deposited me here, a couple of hours from Machu Picchu. I can’t say I know everything about Peru yet, but I’m learning. This probably one of the most polite countries I have ever been in, and although many of the people involved in tourism speak some English, they are tickled pink when I haul out my quaint, textbook, Castilian Spanish to talk to them the best I can. They speak a Spanish here which is crystal clear and so easy to understand–their regional features are few and far between. I haven’t had to use any slang with them, but in general I still haven’t heard anything I don’t understand. I mean, I don’t understand the rules of road in Peru, but one of them must be, if you are standing in the road, you maybe better move–there are no slow dogs in Peru. The airport in Lima, though small, is efficient and all about getting the job done: too many people going through security–open more security lines. The LAN flight to Cuzco was top-notch, and the crews were very professional. Our merry band of travelers has been shepherded around by a great bunch of local guides (thanks to Mohib at Millennium Tours of Texas) who really know what they are doing–kind, professional, communicative, understanding. Our local guides in Lima are from an agency name “coltur” and are top-notch, speak english, know everything there is to know about Lima, are kind and generous, good-hearted people who want to share their city with new-comers. After arriving in Cuzco, we went out for a home-cooked meal of chairo soup, fresh vegetables (which means potatoes) and cuy which had obviously been made by somebody’s mother. Getting used to the altitude is another matter altogether, but I can’t tell if my head hurts because of the altitude or because of my lack of sleep. Sometimes when you are traveling, it’s hard to tell. I can say this, however, that Peru is a very different place. Full of hard-working and earnst people, these first two days have been a real pleasure even though I’ve been on the move the entire time. I watched a public debate last night on who might be the next mayor of Lima–a rather post-modern experience if there ever was one. Now I am deep within the valleys and mountains of the Andes, surrounded by sheer peaks, a gushing river, green fields of potatoes and corn, villages of adobe bricks, dogs. It is, however, hard to generalize because my experiences have already been so diverse. What can you say about people who know how to make perfect potato pancakes? I attended a short seminar and demonstration on traditional weaving and was amazed at the complexity of the process and the talent of the weavers. We think we know a “people” because we can label them, but we would be wrong. What I have seen so far is this: an entire nation working hard to make ends meet, build roads and bridges, get their kids to school, get themselves to work, put bread on their tables, make a decent life for themselves, and nothing about any of that is either simple or uncomplicated. Tomorrow, Inca lore, culture, traditon, dropping back a millennium or so to visit some of the myriad acheological sights in this area–the center of the world?

On Peru

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Getting from my hotel in Miraflores (Lima) to my hotel in Urubamba was quite a journey, involving a tour bus, an airplane, another tour bus, a home cooked meal, a weaving demonstration, a dirt road, and an indeterminate number of switchbacks and potholes which finally deposited me here, a couple of hours from Machu Picchu. I can’t say I know everything about Peru yet, but I’m learning. This probably one of the most polite countries I have ever been in, and although many of the people involved in tourism speak some English, they are tickled pink when I haul out my quaint, textbook, Castilian Spanish to talk to them the best I can. They speak a Spanish here which is crystal clear and so easy to understand–their regional features are few and far between. I haven’t had to use any slang with them, but in general I still haven’t heard anything I don’t understand. I mean, I don’t understand the rules of road in Peru, but one of them must be, if you are standing in the road, you maybe better move–there are no slow dogs in Peru. The airport in Lima, though small, is efficient and all about getting the job done: too many people going through security–open more security lines. The LAN flight to Cuzco was top-notch, and the crews were very professional. Our merry band of travelers has been shepherded around by a great bunch of local guides (thanks to Mohib at Millennium Tours of Texas) who really know what they are doing–kind, professional, communicative, understanding. Our local guides in Lima are from an agency name “coltur” and are top-notch, speak english, know everything there is to know about Lima, are kind and generous, good-hearted people who want to share their city with new-comers. After arriving in Cuzco, we went out for a home-cooked meal of chairo soup, fresh vegetables (which means potatoes) and cuy which had obviously been made by somebody’s mother. Getting used to the altitude is another matter altogether, but I can’t tell if my head hurts because of the altitude or because of my lack of sleep. Sometimes when you are traveling, it’s hard to tell. I can say this, however, that Peru is a very different place. Full of hard-working and earnst people, these first two days have been a real pleasure even though I’ve been on the move the entire time. I watched a public debate last night on who might be the next mayor of Lima–a rather post-modern experience if there ever was one. Now I am deep within the valleys and mountains of the Andes, surrounded by sheer peaks, a gushing river, green fields of potatoes and corn, villages of adobe bricks, dogs. It is, however, hard to generalize because my experiences have already been so diverse. What can you say about people who know how to make perfect potato pancakes? I attended a short seminar and demonstration on traditional weaving and was amazed at the complexity of the process and the talent of the weavers. We think we know a “people” because we can label them, but we would be wrong. What I have seen so far is this: an entire nation working hard to make ends meet, build roads and bridges, get their kids to school, get themselves to work, put bread on their tables, make a decent life for themselves, and nothing about any of that is either simple or uncomplicated. Tomorrow, Inca lore, culture, traditon, dropping back a millennium or so to visit some of the myriad acheological sights in this area–the center of the world?

On flying (to Peru)

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There are two eternal truths about flying: one, people will fight to get on a plane; two, the same people will fight to get off of the plane once it has arrived at its destination. Lining up to get on a plane is chaotic at best, and a mad free-for-all at worst. Don’t get me wrong, I love airplanes and the long-distance travel service that they provide. Service, however, with all airlines has declined over the years, and what was once a fairly glamorous event, is now akin to getting on a bus–lots of jostling for space, too many large carry-ons (no one wants to check a bag anymore and what now passes for a “carry-on” was just a regular large suitcase in the past), packed to the gills planes, no food in tourist class (unless you are willing to pay enormous amounts for chips and a stale sandwich), and perpetually late take-offs and landings. The world of flying has become a mass-market phenomenon which is often to be endured with large doses of stoicism and patience. The airlines are all under-manned, which means those who do have jobs are over-worked and stressed, unwilling or unable to help in any case. Overbooking is a constant problem which allows no room for correcting other sorts of problems such as delayed or missed flights, although airline employees do their best to solve lost flight problems, no one pays them enough to really care that much. Corporate boards and stockholders demand bigger and better profits while they juggle labor costs, fuel costs, new equipment costs, food costs, all of which are demanding, none of which is simple.  In the meantime, an intelligent flyer has taken their layover time to heart and has gotten some food before getting on the plane. Flying is still worth it for most people because most of us don’t have enough time to drive enormous stretches of flyover country to get to our destinations. Case in point: I am going to Peru for a seven day tour of pre-columbian sites in and around Machu Picchu, but if I did not have a nice big airplane, I could never get there in the time I have off from teaching this week to do it. With the airplane, I can get there in less than eight hours with a cute little stop-over in Miami International. So we flyers grin and bear it. Reading this you would think that the experience is absolutely horrible, but that isn’t really the case either. I’m on a new 757, I have pretty good leg space, I have enough room for my Ipad and keyboard, and enough elbow room to work comfortably with other passengers on either side of me. The plane is pretty comfortable, not too loud, and the ride is smooth. We don’t get any in-cabin service, but for this short jaunt from Dallas to Miami, one really doesn’t need too much in-cabin service. In a little while, I’ll bet the flight attendants will be by with an offer of soda or other beverages. In the meantime, I have time to think about flying, why I do it, how handy it is for an interesting trip to Peru, and I have a great view of a beautiful burnt orange sunset out the window to my right. One must live in the moment, appreciate all these good gifts, and not focus on the inconveniences of a crowded cabin. I understand the complex economics of running an airline, the different objectives and motivations of a diverse set of passengers, traveling all of us together for a multitude of different reasons–vacation, health, education, family, emergency, work, tragedy. I am going to Peru (thanks Millennium Travel of Texas!), a place to which I have never been, so even at 53 I have lots of places, events, and people on my bucket list, and Machu Picchu is one of them. I have never looked up at the Southern Cross, I have never visited the homeland of Ricardo Palma, I have never been able to speak Spanish in that country. I look forward to a host of new experiences, all because of this big, shining machine, called an airplane, and the magic of flight, crossing thousands of miles in just a few hours. Postscript: this particular flight to Peru landed about ten minutes before its scheduled arrival, and the crew on the plane couldn’t have been nicer.

On flying (to Peru)

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There are two eternal truths about flying: one, people will fight to get on a plane; two, the same people will fight to get off of the plane once it has arrived at its destination. Lining up to get on a plane is chaotic at best, and a mad free-for-all at worst. Don’t get me wrong, I love airplanes and the long-distance travel service that they provide. Service, however, with all airlines has declined over the years, and what was once a fairly glamorous event, is now akin to getting on a bus–lots of jostling for space, too many large carry-ons (no one wants to check a bag anymore and what now passes for a “carry-on” was just a regular large suitcase in the past), packed to the gills planes, no food in tourist class (unless you are willing to pay enormous amounts for chips and a stale sandwich), and perpetually late take-offs and landings. The world of flying has become a mass-market phenomenon which is often to be endured with large doses of stoicism and patience. The airlines are all under-manned, which means those who do have jobs are over-worked and stressed, unwilling or unable to help in any case. Overbooking is a constant problem which allows no room for correcting other sorts of problems such as delayed or missed flights, although airline employees do their best to solve lost flight problems, no one pays them enough to really care that much. Corporate boards and stockholders demand bigger and better profits while they juggle labor costs, fuel costs, new equipment costs, food costs, all of which are demanding, none of which is simple.  In the meantime, an intelligent flyer has taken their layover time to heart and has gotten some food before getting on the plane. Flying is still worth it for most people because most of us don’t have enough time to drive enormous stretches of flyover country to get to our destinations. Case in point: I am going to Peru for a seven day tour of pre-columbian sites in and around Machu Picchu, but if I did not have a nice big airplane, I could never get there in the time I have off from teaching this week to do it. With the airplane, I can get there in less than eight hours with a cute little stop-over in Miami International. So we flyers grin and bear it. Reading this you would think that the experience is absolutely horrible, but that isn’t really the case either. I’m on a new 757, I have pretty good leg space, I have enough room for my Ipad and keyboard, and enough elbow room to work comfortably with other passengers on either side of me. The plane is pretty comfortable, not too loud, and the ride is smooth. We don’t get any in-cabin service, but for this short jaunt from Dallas to Miami, one really doesn’t need too much in-cabin service. In a little while, I’ll bet the flight attendants will be by with an offer of soda or other beverages. In the meantime, I have time to think about flying, why I do it, how handy it is for an interesting trip to Peru, and I have a great view of a beautiful burnt orange sunset out the window to my right. One must live in the moment, appreciate all these good gifts, and not focus on the inconveniences of a crowded cabin. I understand the complex economics of running an airline, the different objectives and motivations of a diverse set of passengers, traveling all of us together for a multitude of different reasons–vacation, health, education, family, emergency, work, tragedy. I am going to Peru (thanks Millennium Travel of Texas!), a place to which I have never been, so even at 53 I have lots of places, events, and people on my bucket list, and Machu Picchu is one of them. I have never looked up at the Southern Cross, I have never visited the homeland of Ricardo Palma, I have never been able to speak Spanish in that country. I look forward to a host of new experiences, all because of this big, shining machine, called an airplane, and the magic of flight, crossing thousands of miles in just a few hours. Postscript: this particular flight to Peru landed about ten minutes before its scheduled arrival, and the crew on the plane couldn’t have been nicer.

On the wind

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The wind is not your friend. The wind has been blowing with quite a bit of force in central Texas, whipping up brush fires, dust, dirt, and tumble weeds. I walked for nearly an hour yesterday in a stiff breeze that was blowing from the east. In Spain they say the wind can drive you mad if you let it. They even gave it a name, the “Tramontana.” While I lived in Minnesota, I always feared a sharp “tramontana” because on a cold day, it could be quite lethal. The still air temperature could often be rather reasonable, but a stiff north breeze at 20 to 30 miles per hour could make being outside a really rough business. Yet the wind is blind, blows on the just and the unjust alike, causing a person to zip up their jacket, raise their collar, and stuff their hands into their pockets. I’ve seen perfectly beautiful days ruined by a strong wind that blows everything around, ruins your picnic, brings rain to the parade, drives a gentle snow into a horizontal frenzy, whips up deadly whitecaps on the lake. Strong winds will ruin a perfectly good run, turning it into a torturous exercise in pain, endurance, and will. Sometimes you cannot put on enough clothing to blot out the effects of a cold north wind that started off somewhere in Ontario and is making a clean sweep of the central plains. Evil winds will wreck your garden, drop hail on your unsuspecting head, ruin your kite flying aspirations, ground your flight to Chicago, and tear the roof off of your garage. High winds were the bane of medieval cathedral architects who were worried about their new high structures–cathedral walls make great sails, which is unintentional, but it could be fatal. Today, architects play with all sorts of strange shapes in an attempt to minimize wind damage and baffle mother nature just long enough so she won’t blow down their buildings. The wind is, of course, a natural by-product of an active atmosphere of a spinning planet as high pressure chases low pressure, seeking to release energy and go to entropy. The problem is that human beings are trying to live in the middle of all this active energy, which can be either good or bad. Good if you are sailing or drying laundry, maybe flying a kite, but bad if you are running into it and have a mile or more to go before you can change direction. The wind can blow a truck off a road, tip over trees, cause cars to fly, break windows, scatter your lawn furniture. Yet, what is more comforting than a light breeze on a warm summer night? Is there anything more comforting than the rustle of a breeze blowing through the tree tops at the end of a summer day? Wind is, however, about disorder and chaos, out of which very little good ever comes. Disorder and chaos speak to our inability to control anything at all. Control is an illusion that the wind has come to destroy. We transfer our own insecurities about life onto metaphors involving the wind because the wind seems to exemplify all that is fragile and ephemeral in life. The wind comes and goes without explanation, much like Fortune itself, which is as inexplicable and as arbitrary as a light summer breeze that might cool your sweaty brow and give comfort to your tired bones. Just as the wind can bring destruction and tragedy, it might also bring a cooling breeze that lightens the heart and give hope to the soul. What we cannot predict, ever, is when and where the wind might blow, whether it is an ill-wind or a gentle breeze, whether we will have to zip up or open a window.

On the wind

Posted on by

The wind is not your friend. The wind has been blowing with quite a bit of force in central Texas, whipping up brush fires, dust, dirt, and tumble weeds. I walked for nearly an hour yesterday in a stiff breeze that was blowing from the east. In Spain they say the wind can drive you mad if you let it. They even gave it a name, the “Tramontana.” While I lived in Minnesota, I always feared a sharp “tramontana” because on a cold day, it could be quite lethal. The still air temperature could often be rather reasonable, but a stiff north breeze at 20 to 30 miles per hour could make being outside a really rough business. Yet the wind is blind, blows on the just and the unjust alike, causing a person to zip up their jacket, raise their collar, and stuff their hands into their pockets. I’ve seen perfectly beautiful days ruined by a strong wind that blows everything around, ruins your picnic, brings rain to the parade, drives a gentle snow into a horizontal frenzy, whips up deadly whitecaps on the lake. Strong winds will ruin a perfectly good run, turning it into a torturous exercise in pain, endurance, and will. Sometimes you cannot put on enough clothing to blot out the effects of a cold north wind that started off somewhere in Ontario and is making a clean sweep of the central plains. Evil winds will wreck your garden, drop hail on your unsuspecting head, ruin your kite flying aspirations, ground your flight to Chicago, and tear the roof off of your garage. High winds were the bane of medieval cathedral architects who were worried about their new high structures–cathedral walls make great sails, which is unintentional, but it could be fatal. Today, architects play with all sorts of strange shapes in an attempt to minimize wind damage and baffle mother nature just long enough so she won’t blow down their buildings. The wind is, of course, a natural by-product of an active atmosphere of a spinning planet as high pressure chases low pressure, seeking to release energy and go to entropy. The problem is that human beings are trying to live in the middle of all this active energy, which can be either good or bad. Good if you are sailing or drying laundry, maybe flying a kite, but bad if you are running into it and have a mile or more to go before you can change direction. The wind can blow a truck off a road, tip over trees, cause cars to fly, break windows, scatter your lawn furniture. Yet, what is more comforting than a light breeze on a warm summer night? Is there anything more comforting than the rustle of a breeze blowing through the tree tops at the end of a summer day? Wind is, however, about disorder and chaos, out of which very little good ever comes. Disorder and chaos speak to our inability to control anything at all. Control is an illusion that the wind has come to destroy. We transfer our own insecurities about life onto metaphors involving the wind because the wind seems to exemplify all that is fragile and ephemeral in life. The wind comes and goes without explanation, much like Fortune itself, which is as inexplicable and as arbitrary as a light summer breeze that might cool your sweaty brow and give comfort to your tired bones. Just as the wind can bring destruction and tragedy, it might also bring a cooling breeze that lightens the heart and give hope to the soul. What we cannot predict, ever, is when and where the wind might blow, whether it is an ill-wind or a gentle breeze, whether we will have to zip up or open a window.

On mosquitoes

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I was in northern Minnesota for the past couple of days, and the mosquitoes there are ferocious. I don’t know if they even weigh a gram, but they sure pack a huge punch when they sink that proboscis into your skin. I’ve been bitten a million times in my life, but it never ceases to be a huge annoyance. What really bugs me is the fact that you can kill twenty or thirty of the little devils, and there are a hundred more lined up behind them to carry out the dirty work. The little vampires are completely suicidal because the second they bite, you swat, and they are not fast like flies, so most of the time you come away with crushed mosquito on your hand. Biting and sucking blood are their only aims, so even getting crushed is nothing for these little daredevils. Their only chance of success is getting in, biting, sucking, and leaving without getting caught. Except for that whiny sound they make when they aim for your head, they are very stealthy. In fact, a stealthy mosquito is a healthy mosquito. On more than one occasion I have caught a mosquito that stayed just a second too long at the well and come away with a spot of my own blood on my hand. Their success lies in their persistence. Even if twenty of their colleagues are killed trying to get blood, one of them will make it will the victim is distracted by the other twenty. This summer I even got bit on the palm of my hand, which makes scratching an odd subject to deal with. I have scratched more than one mosquito bit. The typical welt that shows up is very itchy–a reaction to the mosquito’s saliva, no doubt, and if you scratch too hard, they bleed. My arms still have a number of old scars from my childhood that started out as itchy mosquito bites. As to the use of mosquitoes, I can think of none. They are good bat fodder, and I know that the swallows near my house also eat them. The architecture of the mosquito is totally pragmatic: wings, proboscis, and legs. This forms a deadly, if not compact, insect that is both plentiful and deadly. The mosquitoes of Minnesota can carry a virus or two, but they are not as deadly as the mosquitoes in the rest of the world that spread malaria hither and yon. At one point on Wednesday night, I just gave up and went inside. I hunted down a half dozen interlopers that had made it inside, and I killed them all. I have no qualms about liquidating mosquitoes. Life is life, and then their are mosquitoes. Some people joke that the mosquitoes in Minnesota are so big that they might carry off a newborn child or puppy, but they are exaggerating: the mosquitoes are much bigger than that. The mosquito cannot be the state bird of Minnesota because it’s not a bird, but that’s the only reason. Next time you see a mosquito, kill it for me.

On mosquitoes

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I was in northern Minnesota for the past couple of days, and the mosquitoes there are ferocious. I don’t know if they even weigh a gram, but they sure pack a huge punch when they sink that proboscis into your skin. I’ve been bitten a million times in my life, but it never ceases to be a huge annoyance. What really bugs me is the fact that you can kill twenty or thirty of the little devils, and there are a hundred more lined up behind them to carry out the dirty work. The little vampires are completely suicidal because the second they bite, you swat, and they are not fast like flies, so most of the time you come away with crushed mosquito on your hand. Biting and sucking blood are their only aims, so even getting crushed is nothing for these little daredevils. Their only chance of success is getting in, biting, sucking, and leaving without getting caught. Except for that whiny sound they make when they aim for your head, they are very stealthy. In fact, a stealthy mosquito is a healthy mosquito. On more than one occasion I have caught a mosquito that stayed just a second too long at the well and come away with a spot of my own blood on my hand. Their success lies in their persistence. Even if twenty of their colleagues are killed trying to get blood, one of them will make it will the victim is distracted by the other twenty. This summer I even got bit on the palm of my hand, which makes scratching an odd subject to deal with. I have scratched more than one mosquito bit. The typical welt that shows up is very itchy–a reaction to the mosquito’s saliva, no doubt, and if you scratch too hard, they bleed. My arms still have a number of old scars from my childhood that started out as itchy mosquito bites. As to the use of mosquitoes, I can think of none. They are good bat fodder, and I know that the swallows near my house also eat them. The architecture of the mosquito is totally pragmatic: wings, proboscis, and legs. This forms a deadly, if not compact, insect that is both plentiful and deadly. The mosquitoes of Minnesota can carry a virus or two, but they are not as deadly as the mosquitoes in the rest of the world that spread malaria hither and yon. At one point on Wednesday night, I just gave up and went inside. I hunted down a half dozen interlopers that had made it inside, and I killed them all. I have no qualms about liquidating mosquitoes. Life is life, and then their are mosquitoes. Some people joke that the mosquitoes in Minnesota are so big that they might carry off a newborn child or puppy, but they are exaggerating: the mosquitoes are much bigger than that. The mosquito cannot be the state bird of Minnesota because it’s not a bird, but that’s the only reason. Next time you see a mosquito, kill it for me.