A Halyomorpha Halys visitor

A Halyomorpha Halys Visitor

 Last Thursday evening, while sitting on my couch in a mild vegetative state, I heard a soft pop sound to my right. I looked up, thought for some seconds, then turned my head toward the lamp on the end table. A dark spot the size of a lima bean came into view on the lampshade. I immediately suspected Halyomorpha halys.

Ever consciousness of avoiding offensive language I’m going with the Latin here. The slang is stink bug (no caps and, yes, somewhat disrespectful). It is the equivalent, in my view, of referring, to police-officers as “fuzz.”  So I'll avoid it. Equally non-offensive is the non-Latin acronym BMSB (i.e. brown marmorated stink bug).

OK, ... marmorated?

From Wikipedia: The term "marmorated" means variegated or veined, like marble, which refers to the markings unique to this species, includes alternating light-colored bands on the antennae and alternating dark bands on the thin outer edge of the abdomen.

Anyway ... I am familiar with these characters and they do fall under my “no kill shelter” policy for all in-home insects that, for me, has been in effect since childhood.

So I get up and head to the Kitchen for a water glass (my capture tool of choice). On my return I pluck an unopened envelope from my desk, a credit-card-come-on from Capital One Bank.

Fine.

Tools in hand I approach the H. halys. These guys don’t require sneaking up. Still I move slowly and place the open end of the glass against the lampshade surrounding the H. halys with glass. I slip the Capital One envelope under his (or her) feet.

Voila – I now have the tumbler, capped by the envelope, with BMSB inside. I proceed through the front door and set the glass, sans envelope, on a chair on the front porch.

The next morning, stepping out for the newspaper, I see that the BMSB has departed the water glass. Mission accomplished is my thought.

Two days later I am vacuuming the living room and notice another brownish-gray lima-bean-like object on the floor. I stop my cleaning to inspect.

Another H. halys.

I move closer, nudge the insect with my finger. He doesn’t stir. Again a nudge. Again no reaction. I assume he has passed on and think maybe I’ll add the guy to my collection of bugs. For the past year I've kept a bottle full  of little creatures for the grandkids to view under a microscope. I got the scope two years ago but they have yet to use it and it's still in the unopened case. Someday maybe. Meanwhile I'm saving bugs.

For some reason, when I restart the vacuum, I circle around the passed away BMSB and decide to leave it on the floor. This act, or non-act, is extremely perplexing to me, and I am fully aware that it may suggest mild derangement - but I let that pass.

I get on with life.

Now another day has gone by. I am reading the newspaper when the expired H. halys on the floor comes to mind. I decide to put him/her into my jar of saved insects (see above), so I proceed to the spot where I left him.

You guessed it – good old H. halys has “flown the coop.”

That night I strip my bed, inspecting as I go. I do this because a H. halys brethren was in fact discovered on my mattress just a fortnight ago, so I am aware that bed covers are a favorite destination. Anyway all is clear today. I put on new sheets, blankets etc. and fall asleep thinking respectful thoughts of my BMSB housemate and how I fell for the oldest trick in the book – the playing-dead-for-humans-trick. Just before nodding off I vow that if I find what’s-his-name I will give him a good home for the winter – perhaps in the garage.

Tomorrow, I'll search the couch, but I am secretly hoping that he turns himself in first.

P.S. A month later he's still missing.

Snow Day in Jersey

                     Snow Day in Jersey
I let the snow – our first of the winter (not counting the October blast) - accumulate outside for a time (newspaper and coffee first) before venturing out with the shovel.

 

It is close to 11 when I take my last sip and put the paper down. It's the life of a pensioner. With daughter’s family and grand kids away I've got the day to myself.

Stepping on my porch I squint at the snow and guess that shoveling the light dry snow will be an easy go. My assessment is correct as I happily lift shovelfuls moving down the driveway.

Two doors away a neighbor is out as well. It is one of the many benefits of snow – neighborly chats. He is pushing a homemade double wide shovel contraption and seems deservedly proud of his ingenuity (fastening two actual shovels together and bracketing the handles). 

I meander down. “You’ll make short work of the walkway with a tool like that,” I offer, intending praise.

 

He smiles. “Yeah this works pretty good,” he says with modesty, then provides a demo by plowing a few feet from his driveway.  It’s a bit more of a struggle with the driveway snow, packed from passing plows. He looks up; draws a deep breath.

“Easy as pie,” I remark.

He nods without dispute and we chat some more, about the weather, local sleigh-riding hills, my daughter’s family who are his contemporaries.  The air is crisp, not at all bone chilling. Like a soprano’s perfect pitch the day itself is perfectly invigorating with the silent snow still falling and the intermittent pleasant sounds of shovels scraping the nearby sidewalks.

 Across the street another neighbor is wheeling a barrow full of firewood from backyard to his front porch, struggling just a bit through a yard of snow. “Should have done that yesterday,” we suggest – neighborly-like.

“You said it,” is the happy reply.

A third neighbor appears. He steps into the snow and onto the driveway which he attacks with a beginner’s eager-beaver vengeance. His house is directly across from mine and when his first burst of energy has reached its end, he straightens up and walks over.

‘We’re going away for a few days,” he tells me, catching his breath.

“I’ll keep an eye on the house,” I respond.

He thanks me; offers that his newspaper will be stopped, but tomorrow it will still come. “We’ll be gone; could you pick it up?” he says.

This fills me with glee – a free Sunday NY Times. “Don’t worry, I’ll save it for you," I say. Then add a joke, "But I might read it.” 

He gets it.

FYI: My own NY Times is limited to Monday through Friday. Can not resist plugging myself as a bona fide NY Times reader, albeit 5 days only. A pensioner’s budget is my justification. Silly man.   

But the snow: Yes – I do love the snow – especially days like today. Perfect.

Plus the free paper.

Throwing high pops - May 1982

                                        Throwing High Pops - May 1982

 It’s after school on a Monday, a bright afternoon in early May. Of course for me, age 42 now, it is no longer “after school”. For me it is “after work” though I presume for many of my contemporaries it is just beyond mid-day. As I have done on occasion in the work world, today I have found a way to leave work early - one of my learned skills as a corporate worker-bee. 

             The time of year is now well into the baseball season for the two junior high school teams gathered before me. My daughter’s school, the Falcons, is pitted against the Cougars, who now occupy the field, ostensibly warming up. 


              The Falcons are loosely gathered about their team bench, three twelve-foot board planks along the first baseline. Their coach, a youngish PE-type peers out at the field, toward the opposition, squinting into the afternoon sun. The collection of twelve to thirteen year old boys in his charge squirm on the bench behind him, emitting familiar adolescent banter. Much of their talk is for the benefit of a thin strand of their contemporaries, six in number, standing in a line approximately three paces from the bench. This string of six is of female gender and my daughter is among them.

I catch parts of the girl talk that seem like repeated versions of “No way - Call me tonight,” then “What time?” then “I don’t care.”

As for the Falcons, uniformed in away-gray (they're playing at home) polyester with green script F-A-L-C-O-N-S on their chests, they are, at the moment, neither studying the opposition, nor collecting themselves into a game face mentality. Nor do they mimic big leaguers. Instead they mimic themselves at recess, except for the fact that they are now confined to the bench area by apparent invisible fencing. Their noises seem not so much related to verbs or nouns. Predominate is a sound that I think would be spelled like “Shuuump.” It is often paired with a feigned punch to the eye or a karate-like chop to the neck. The “Shuuump” mixes with bewildering word formations (sometimes) and spasmodic gestures (always). 

        For example, apparently imitating an opponent during batting practice, one Falcon assumes a batting stance, then suddenly throws up both hands and yells, “Whoa!” Next is a backwards stagger (spasmodic) which prompts sharp laughter from teammates. The demonstrator then recovers from his stagger, pokes jab-like at a nearby mate’s eye and says, “Shuuump!” The mate winces, then breaks into an adolescent strut. And so it goes.

 
         I watch and listen, pretending indifference, which come to think of it is what the Falcons and the string of six are doing as well. The Cougars, in the field, provide background music - timeless sandlot chatter.

 

Soon the game begins and the string of six immediately executes, if I remember my military experience, a quite precise right face maneuver followed by a forward march parallel to the foul line. They pass first base and shift to a flank formation and walk six a breast in foul territory, toward the school building, shedding self-consciousness with each step removed from the playing area. Finally they disappear into a school doorway. 

 

Apparently, the actual game did not interest them.

Next to the doorway I notice a familiar sight, what I would call an incarnation of myself. It is a small boy pitching a rubber ball against the school wall. I watch, remembering days when I found joy and the best of dreams while throwing a ball against a wall. For the moment I forget about the official game before me and heed a pull to the boy at the wall.

“Let me throw you a high one,” I say, remembering the thrill of chasing a ball that moved against the sky, settling beneath it and then letting it sink into my glove.

“Throw it here,” I say.

The kid flips the ball to me and quickly drops into fielder’s stance - a dog ready to fetch.

“All set?" I say.

He just looks at me, his eyes wide. 

Just then the string of six re-emerges from the school. “Dad!” Brett shouts at me.

“What,” I say, ball in hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Playing catch,” I say.

“Dad, that’s Tom’s brother.” That would be Tom, the Falcon.

“Oh yeah,” I say remembering now the last name of my incarnation. “Roger, right?” I say. Roger doesn’t answer. He stays in the wide eye ready stance.

“You’re crazy Dad.” I take it as a compliment, but I know that interacting with "Tom's brother" is a no-no. 

Regardless, I turn toward Roger, “O.K.!” I say and take one hop and then arching myself backward fling the ball straight up into the air, aiming it as best I can so that it might descend in the general proximity of my ready fielder. I remember my father here - him throwing, and me watching the shrinking ball against the sky delighted and amazed at the same time, at the height of the throw. Then camping under the ball, and aware of the uneven slope of our Cottage Street yard under my feet, and then catching it.

 Somewhere along the line of time in a boy’s life is a point at which catching a ball in the air becomes easy for one accustomed to such games. As I watch this ball sail skyward I wonder if I have correctly gauged Roger’s place in this baseball skill spectrum. I do not want the ball to hit on his forehead instead of his glove. For that reason I didn’t throw this first ball too high. But Roger catches the ball with ease and so I throw another and another, each higher than before until my arm, at age 42, grows weak.

The fielder however was shows no sign of tiring. On the contrary, he appears even more enthusiastic. Just as I remember it – so well. 

I remember too, something else about playing baseball with my father. The game we played was that I would pitch the ball to him and he would tap out flies and grounders in my direction. Always brother John would be in the outfield a few paces behind me. My mother would sit on the back porch steps, a box seat, watching it all and from time to time exclaiming how amazing it was that dad never missed hitting a pitch. 


Officially this game had a name. It was called Pepper and big-leaguers played it to warm up before games. But what I remember most about our baseball games was that I never wanted them to end which was the thought that came to mind as I looked at Roger after pitching approximately a dozen high ones for him to field. I could easily have called it quits here, but for the look in Roger’s eye. Let’s just say, I’ve been there. That was the thing I could never understand as a child. Why didn’t my dad want to play baseball every single night - forever? Now of course I know, but back then, no clue.   

                Anyway, having had enough of throwing high pops, I walk toward Roger and say, “So what’s the game you play against the wall?” Sure as you bet there is a game that Roger plays with the ball and the wall. I’m guessing that it’s his own version of what might be labeled dream-ball, with special rules and all; no doubt. I wonder what it is exactly but I know I’ll never get it out of him.

                “I dunno,” he says.

                I look at the wall, a large patch of flat brick with no windows. Ideal, I think. Two stories in height, and set down onto a flat blacktop lot. Even at age forty I see the possibilities for many dream-ball-like games.

“Here, lemme show you something,” I say walking toward the wall. Another nice feature of this wall I now see is that it has a decorative like ledge about six feet from the ground. The concrete shelf of this ledge slants up about forty-five degrees from the front edge. Perfect I think.  

                “Here’s the deal,” I say. Roger is silent. “O.K. you throw the ball against the wall, I mean, I’ll throw it. If you catch it and it’s a grounder you’ve got to throw it to me to get the out at first. If it’s a fly, you got to catch it or it’s extra bases. Now see this ledge? If I hit the edge of the ledge, the corner, the ball will sail over your head. Then it’s a home run if it goes past the blacktop.”

                “Yeah,” Roger says. I don’t think he’s got it all but I’ll explain as I go.

                “All right, you ready?” I look at Roger and come to a pitcher’s stretch position. Roger is ready. “Shift over a little,” I say.  Roger slides, three hops to the left. In my stretch position I see from the corner of my eye that the Falcon game is in full swing. I hear loud shrieks, shouting, cheering, and notice fans jumping up and down, players running around the bases.

Back to dream-ball.  “O.K here comes the pitch.” I am both pitcher and announcer for this game of dream-ball. All dream-ball games require an announcer, someone that calls the game and shouts with utter amazement at the wondrous and sparkling play of the star player – in this case – Roger. *

I fire the ball at an upward angle so the rebound is an arching fly ball. Then I announce, “There’s a high fly to left, Roger moves back, he’s under it, makes the grab.” All of this actually happens. “Alright, one down, O.K., Roger, what’s your last name?” I figure that announcers can’t be calling the center fielder by first name over the radio.

“Benson,” Roger says.

So I put Benson into the game and just as I played for the Cardinals in my dreamball games. Roger Benson plays centerfield for the Yankees. He follows Winfield in the order, batting fourth. As fielder, I give Roger an assortment of grounders, flies, and line drives, and pop-ups. Roger manages pretty well for a ten-year old. I see that he doesn’t want the game to end. But I grow tired, as adults do, and after ten or fifteen minutes of firing the tennis ball at the wall I announce that this is now the last inning and the bases are loaded and Benson steps up to the plate. Roger, in the field, takes the identity of the Red Sox outfielder.

“Alright, here’s Benson, he already has three hits on the day and at the plate now he has a chance to win this game for the Yankees if he can get a hold of one here.” I try to bounce the ball off the edge of the ledge but I miss so the ball comes back to me. “Ball one,” I announce. Roger understands what’s happening here. Anything that doesn’t result in a direct hit on the edge I call a ball, or called strike or foul ball. Finally I get one that strikes the sharp edge and it sails high into the air and over the Red Sox fielder’s head and I launch into my game-ending announcement. “Oh my gosh, Benson has done it again, that ball is gone! What a shot! It’s far, far over the center fielder’s head! All runner’s are going to score and Benson has again won the game for the Yankees.”   

Roger high-tails-it after the ball, scoops it into his glove and walks back across the blacktop. I say “Nice game, Benson, you did it again. You won the game.” He looks at me with still wide eyes. “You hit the game winning home run,” I say.

“I know,” Roger says.

“Dad!” It's someone calling me. It’s the string of six again, heading back toward the school.

“Where are you going?” I say.

“For a drink.” But I knew that.

“Who’s winning?” I say.

“What are you doing?” Brett says.

“We’re playing a game. Who’s winning?” I say again.

  They all look at each other, without talking. As if passing the question on down the line, does anyone know the score?                

“Don’t know,” comes the reply. 

 

* When playing alone, as is most common, dream-ball players function in both roles, as announcer and player, which, for obvious reasons is often, both necessary better.