The Ant Mound
Sunday, July 29, 2018
One of my earliest childhood memories is traumatic. At least it would seem traumatic to a three-and-a-half-year-old little boy. Though it didn’t turn out to be the end of the world, it seemed like hell when it happened. I still carry the memory with me more than a half-century later, so it damaged me on some level.
My family – mother, wicked step-father, newborn baby sister and me – were living in an old two-story house in Lancaster, California, which in the late 1960s was still mostly desert scrub and Joshua trees. We were located far enough away from everything else that it could be called the middle of nowhere. Today, a strip mall stands where the house once did.
We were so remote that my mother didn’t really pay attention to what I was getting into. She trusted I would not stray too far and everything would just work itself out. She had a newborn baby to worry about and didn’t give me the attention I probably should have gotten. With nothing to do and no watchful eye, I would wander the acre-sized property, trying to keep myself entertained. This ended up being a theme in my childhood.
One day, I thought I could make friends with the ants who had built a nest out in the open area far behind the house. I was fascinated by how they scurried back and forth, some appearing from the mound while others disappeared into it.
To make friends with them, it seemed I should get close and be down at their level. This meant I had to sit next to the mound. So I planted myself there on the ground, wearing my tan shorts, striped t-shirt and little red sneakers. When the first few ants crawled on me, I thought they were welcoming my invitation to be friends.
These were not your garden variety ants, mind you. They were those red and black kind that are nearly a quarter of an inch long with strong mandibles. These ants were big, fast, and as it turns out, very aggressive.
Before I knew it, I was covered with dozens of ants that saw me as a threat to their home. The hive sounded the alarm and went on the attack. First, I felt one bite, then a few more and several more soon after that. Before I knew it, my skin was on fire as the big red and black ants bit me over and over. They were all over me. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get them all off my body. This was pain unlike any other in my short time on earth.
I got up from the ground in a panic and began stripping off my clothes as I ran toward the house screaming like a banshee. By the time I got to the back door, I was down to my underwear and little red sneakers, covered with big red welts. I ran upstairs where I found my mother nursing my half-sister. I’m sure the sight of her little boy bursting into the room practically naked with tears streaming down his face alarmed her.
She was able to calm me enough to get the story from me. She squished the few remaining ants she found in my hair, then broke out ointment to soothe the swollen bites. Her motherly attention dissolved my anxiety and I calmed down.
My mother and I reminisced about this many times over the years. We even talked about it the last time I saw her before she passed away. She always thought it was hilarious. I, however, remember it differently.
To this day, ants give me the heebie-jeebies – even the tiny black ones you see after leaving greasy or sugary food out. If I find even one ant crawling on me after sitting in the grass, I’ll start doing a very unmanly arm-flailing dance to get the critter off me as fast as I can.
I learned a big lesson that day… Don’t sit on an ant mound without knowing the consequences, because you might get eaten alive. It was the last and only time I did.