Talk of skeeters leaves me in a fog

Survived another LaGrone Reunion and we kinfolks will be celebrating No. 80 next year, one of the longest running family feuds in the country.

While sitting around the campfire on any given night, a number of subjects are discussed and disected and most concern the crazy things we did as kids—a few that would now get our parents thrown in the hoosegow.

For instance, riding in the family car on the dash underneath the front windshield.

One of the more popular subjects was ketchup sandwiches. Couldn’t get enough of ‘em.

I’m sure I speak for a whole generation of adults when I say that when we were kids in the 1960s, when the mosquito fogger truck rolled through our Winwood Addition neighborhood in Lafayette, Louisiana, it was one of the highlights of our young lives.

The second we found out the fogger was near, we all messaged each other on our cell phones (just kidding)—we all lined up our bikes in rows like we were entering a NASCAR race at Talladega.

We weren’t this interested in the ice cream truck that made its way through the neighborhood every summer day. (Mmm, nutty buddies).

With our parents watching—let me repeat that—with our parents watching, we followed this DDT spewing (re: deadly poison) space ship that was surely sent by NASA, like a Western Flyer panzer division.

DDT was nicknamed “The Atomic Bomb of pesticides”.

It was especially prevalent in Louisiana, where mosquitoes were the size of crows and would fly in formation from their bayou fortresses.

You can have your sophisticated video games—deadly poison was our friend.

It was a contest to see who could get the closest to the fogger and disappear in the cloud of odorless fun.

We would follow it as far as we could until, sadly, it got back on the highway.

The practice was finally banned in 1972. What a shame.

You want a blast from the past, there are actually You Tube videos from the 1960s that were released by the government and shown before movies in theaters, belying how safe it was.

It brought up wistful feelings as I was watching. I may have even teared up a bit. Okay—I teared up, alright?

I miss my big red Western Flyer, which was built better than most cars today.

I’m surprised no one has used this as a defense in court for an insanity plea.

There’s catchy names for each generation: baby boomer, generation-X, millennials.

Me, I’m a fogger and proud of it.

Now, where did I leave my car keys...