Praising the fire ant; I am not kidding

For the person who gave the name to the Fire Ant Festival in Ashburn, you’d think I’d feel differently about Solenopsis invicta.

I refer here to that invader who was welcomed with the same open arms that greeted yankee carpetbaggers after the end (on paper anyway) the Civil War. I bring your attention to that mighty mite, that midge of mayhem, that diminutive dynamo of destruction, that colossal creature of chaos and that’s enough alliteration for right now.

Fire ants.

If you are from the South you have a vast number of names for this South American invader.

Some deranged person once thought fire ants were beneficial. Except for teaching some people why they do not need to live in the South, I cannot see how the fire ant has done anything helpful. You’d think fire ants would gleefully attack termites, but nooooo. They live right next door to each other too. You can have a huge fire ant mound slap up against a termite mound.

I think they gang up on us.

“Here’s the plan,” say the queens (oh yes, fire ants and termites are led by queens, females. Betcha THAT gives you a new understanding of fire ants). “The termites will undermine the floor. When they have all the wood chewed up so that it barely supports a human, the ants will attack. When the ants attack, the humans will begin jumping up and down and the floor will collapse.”

When this happens, both colonies of critters then nearly die laughing.

Anyway. Even as I type this, I have a fire ant blister on my left wrist. As I prop my hands on the edge of the table which serves as my desk, this particular bite is also resting on the table. Ow. Ow. Ow.

This also reminds me of a time back when Larry “Hawgin'” Fishbreath and I played golf. He still does now and then, whereas I have sworn off except for charity golf tournaments when I get to drive the refreshment wagon.

We were on the course when a yankee pulled up next to us. He rooted around in his bags for a while before quitting with a disgusted look on his face.

“Youse guys gotta tee?” he asked.

“Naw. We don’t use ’em no more,” Hawgin’ said. “I find I get a better drive without one.”

I too had no tees. Or clubs. Or golf balls. I was in charge of the cooler and fishing gear. Every time we got to a water hazard, we fished.

The yankee golfer muttered under his breath and walked to the tee. He dropped the ball.

“Hey. Why doncha prop yer ball on that mound of dirt over there,” Hawgin’ said. 

Yes. The mound of dirt was a huge fire ant mound. They can appear overnight even on the best golf courses.

A light glinted in the golfer’s eye. He got behind the mound and eyed down the fairway. Hawgin’ slid into the cart driver’s seat.

“Baker, we best be goin’ now,” he whispered.

“I totally agree,” I said.

The golfer laid his ball on the mound. We eased away.

He took his stance. 

He swung. 

The mound exploded.

As we crested the hill driving wide open back to the clubhouse so we could leave in an even greater hurry, we could hear his screams.

FAF month is underway. The festival is March 28-29. Y’all come see us.