I remember reading a short story in Jr. High called, “Leiningen Versus the Ants.” It spoke of a horrific encounter between a farmer and a colony of ants overtaking his land. I remember Leiningen digging ditches and filling the ditches with petrol then setting them ablaze. I don’t remember who won the battle; the ants or Leiningen, but I remember thinking about Leiningen last fall when my winter garden was destroyed; not by ants, but, by boars (chingiale)!
I am currently planting a spring/summer garden and simultaneously planning a fence-building project, which should help keep the “big guys” out of my garden!
Rich and I have been diligent in our effort to create a garden out of a long neglected terreno. He’s become an expert dry-stone wall builder and I’ve mastered the rototiller; we’re both paying the price of this education in sums of sweat and pain. We’ve become very good at convincing each other that the result of this toil will be worth every ache! Funny how “acre” and “ache” sound so much alike!
Next to our baracca (shack) we were once shown the whereabouts of our septic tank and warned where we shouldn’t dig too deeply. It’s a triangular bit of land which spends part of the day shaded by a huge bay-laurel. Since we cannot plant anything substantial there it’s a perfect spot for a lawn, or what the Italians call a prato inglese – the term itself means “English field” and when an Italian pronounces “prato inglese,” it accompanies a facial expression which suggests, “what a waste of land, time, and water!”
Using the rototiller (motozappa) and heeding the advice of the former landowner, I simply broke the surface of the area making it easier to grade. After raking, to fill-in the hollows and level the high spots, I used a water-filled roller to compact and smooth out the land.
The next morning I faced a selection of lawn seed at the “Home Depot equivalent” and chose one called Prato Rustico, which in my mind would be more acceptable to my Italian neighbors because of the word rustico in its title – yet, I’m sure they’ll still shake their heads as they round the corner in their apes and behold my prato! I was anxious to get home and have this planted by lunchtime.
Following the instructions to the letter, I raked the plot to loosen the surface, distributed the seed and covered it with six 50 liter bags of top soil. I “moderatamente” watered the area and hoped for the best. The instructions suggested that the area be watered to a depth of 2 to 3 cm each day until the sprouting grass reaches a certain height and then I could decrease the amount of water. There are also instructions on when first to mow the grass; however, I saved that part for future reference. I left the compagna with a great sense of accomplishment and pride. I imagined the barbeques we’d eventually have and the cool shaded patch of lawn inviting us to stretch-out for an afternoon read or nap.
Walking to land the next day, the issue of fencing was again clouding my mind. Now that we’ll have a lawn, we’ll need to get going on the boar proofing, lest they destroy our perfect picnic spot! One thing leads to another after all.
Upon arrival, Rich went off to his walls to fill-in the chinks with small bits of stone; I immediately attended my newly sowed lawn. As I turned the spigot and watched the hose twitch as the pressure built, another movement caught my eye. It seemed too bizarre to be true because at first glance the entire surface of my future lawn was undulating. I’d yet to drink my daily quota of vino, so I wasn’t tipsy and even though I’d left my glasses at home, it wasn’t a bit of blurred vision that was causing this wavelike motion—surely it was an illusion of sorts, like the mirages one sees on a hot highway. On my hands and knees for a closer look, I was horrified when I encountered the source of this illusion.
I had become a latter-day Leiningen as I beheld legions upon legions of ants marching as ants do; and each one of them holding in their pinchers one perfect prato rustico seed. Thousands and thousands, rank after rank; they were carrying off the seeds in one direction and after presenting the spoils to their queen, back they came eager for more. Thousands of seeds were disappearing right before my eyes. I screamed for Rich to witness what couldn’t be happening. Could they possibly carry off all the seeds I sowed?
Following the direction of the seed laden critters, Rich and I discovered the entrance to their lair and decided that a good stream of water and a good soaking of the area should solve the problem and stop further degradation. I blasted the hole with a full stream from the hose and then proceeded to spray the entire area with more than the recommended “moderatamente” amount. I’ve heard of ants ruining a picnic but it was absurdly ironic for them to destroy a future picnicking spot!
The water did nothing but cause a temporary work stoppage. Soon they were back to work and (perhaps I’m exaggerating?) making up for lost time!
The next day we returned to the store to seek out a more drastic solution to our little invasion. Self, the “Home Depot wannbe,” had many solutions to our problem, which reassured me that we were not the only ones in Italy with ant issues. However, after reading the directions, contents and warnings of several anti-formiche solutions, we decided to take a more earth-friendly approach; after all, we were planning on eating the produce grown in close proximity to this lawn. Rich had heard that ants cannot digest cornmeal; yet, they’ll eat it anyway and take it to their queen. After a sip of water they’re supposed to explode. Being a sceptic I did a little bit of research on the internet and, sure enough, Rich was right! Cornmeal! It was worth a try.
Yesterday I drove out to the land with a 1000 gr. bag of polenta. I heaped a ring of cornmeal around the hole of the anthill and poured some in the cracks of the cement around the baracca where I’d seen ants once before. Thinking that it certainly wouldn’t hurt the “seeded” area, and wondering just how much grass seed was left anyway, I broadcast the remainder of the bag on what will be a prato inglese someday -- dammit! Was it just my imagination or did a see an ant or two drop his grass seed and make a beeline for the cornmeal? Will it work? Chi sa?
Today, I’m writing this and have yet to work up the nerve to see just what’s going on in our cursed blessed compagna!
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| Maybe the neighbors will accept this? |
