On a recent Saturday I was out on the tractor, prosecuting my endless campaign to prevent Mother Nature from swallowing our house. Perched high, bushhog in tow, behatted and swaddled from wrist to ankle to repel the poison ivy that always finds a foothold anyway, I was feeling fairly secure as I gunned the tractor into the rising thicket of grass and privet. Given the density of said thicket, it’s hardly surprising that I didn’t see the yellowjackets until I was deep in enemy territory. Right when I’d backed the bushhog into a tight corner between a fencerow and a couple of overgrown live oak trees—a spot that would require about a seven-point-turn to escape, the yellowjackets came boiling out of the undergrowth with revenge on their tiny, buggy minds. Trapped on the tractor with a fence in front of me, the bushhog behind and a cloud of enraged wasps pouring out of an unseen nest that I must have been right on top of, I was a sitting duck, with no choice but to remain seated, grinding gears with one hand and thrashing with the other while trying to back out of the ambush. By the time I was out of range I’d been stung on most exposed body parts, and several that certainly weren’t. Both hands swelled up like cartoon paws drawn by an evil toddler, and my right arm was stung so many times I couldn’t raise it above my head for a week.
"After thirty years living out here, I’ve gradually come to accept that no matter how much time I spend on a tractor, up a ladder, or under the house, the grass will never all be mowed, the pool clean, the porch free of wasps, and all pieces of outdoor equipment working simultaneously. This acceptance is a vital part of living in the country."
Not for the first time it occurred to me that life in the country isn’t for the faint of heart—nor for the allergic, the squeamish, or the easily startled. Perfectionists, indoorsmen, and entomophobes need not apply. Because the thing about my yellowjacket experience is that it isn’t that unusual. Rare is the weekend when, while addressing one maintenance issue or another, I don’t emerge bruised, bitten, cut, stung, swollen, itching, or lightly impaled. This summer, with above-average rainfall spurring sci-fi-level vegetation growth, trees killed by the 2023 drought falling with each rainstorm, red wasps taking up residence in every piece of garden furniture, and passels of wild hogs rooting up the driveway, Mother Nature does appear to be winning. Even without going outside you’re not necessarily safe. The other night we were awoken by the sound of something hefty and mammalian scuffling about nearby—like, inside-the-bedroom-wall nearby. It sounded bigger than a rat, smaller than a raccoon, and quite well-armed, if the gnawing sounds were any indication. In a more urbanized setting, this might have been grounds for a 911 call. Instead, my wife, who has lived in this house all her life, merely thumped the wall a couple of times, then rolled over and pulled a pillow over her head.
[Read more from James Fox-Smith: "Old School Forest Bathing—Summer's are for child's play"]
There’s something Sisyphean about attempting to impose order upon the wild, buzzing fecundity of a rural Louisiana summertime. After thirty years living out here, I’ve gradually come to accept that no matter how much time I spend on a tractor, up a ladder, or under the house, the grass will never all be mowed, the pool clean, the porch free of wasps, and all pieces of outdoor equipment working simultaneously. This acceptance is a vital part of living in the country. Lately, a lot of new houses are going up in our once sparsely populated corner of West Feliciana parish, and as St. Francisville becomes more desirable, the pace and pressure are only growing. Each time I see a new lot being cleared, a slab poured, or a set of those grandiose, subdivision-style entrances erected in front of a tract of uncleared woodland (to keep out what, exactly?), I wonder if the builders and the buyers know what they’re signing up for. Living out here, the very-human urges towards order and predictability are hard to impose and impossible to maintain. Insects swarm, trees fall, the power goes out, stuff breaks; and when it does, help can be a long time coming. Learning to accept some of nature’s chaotic, inconvenient, and occasionally downright hostile traits is the price of admission. You might even consider that acceptance a kind of stewardship—benign neglect as a duty of care, essential to conserving what attracted us in the first place. I hope the people building houses in the West Feliciana countryside recognize this. If they don’t, this place won’t be the “country” anymore, but a benign, denatured place of neat lawns and tame animals and predictable outcomes—the same as everywhere else.
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