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And as
twilight wrapped its all-encompassing arms around our little corner of the
world, and the sounds of nightingales and crickets filled the air
… the
mosquito truck appeared, and lumbered down our quiet street. Every boy and girl
knew the sound. While the thump of its tires on asphalt, and the roar of its
engine were evidence enough, we had acclimated to a different frequency,
entirely. At this juncture, almost six decades hence, it is difficult to
describe the sound. (Rather like what was referred to as the “Rebel Yell” of
Civil War fame. It is said that you would have had to have been there).
At any rate,
we recognized the sound of the spray, as it forcibly emanated from the tank,
and assumed the form of a thick, white mist. Honestly, I don’t know what our
parents were thinking, but when “the siren called” eight or ten of us rushed
into the street, and ran headlong behind the spray truck.
I think we
must have inhaled the majority of what was intended for the neighborhood
mosquitoes. (But, somehow we survived this weekly ritual, and seemed none the
worse for it).
by Bill McDonald, PhD
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