Carol’s Column

A murderer or saint?

SO HOW did you spend last Sunday?

Playing tennis, braaing at the pool, reading a book in the sun?

That's nice.

Me? I spent my Sunday doing battle with the latest invaders to hit Parkwood.

A small, cricket-like creature with large eyes and a soft, squelchy body, it and its hundreds of thousands of relatives are in the process of eating up my hard-grown, lovingly manicured and home-grown compost-nurtured lawn.

Rumour has it that they are an invasion from the South, from Sasolburg to be exact. But one should never take rumours seriously.

They arrived suddenly.

One day, the lawn was a delightful, flat, greenish-yellow carpet — okay, maybe a flat, dried-out, brownish carpet.

Next day, it looked as if a horde of mini-moles had invaded it. As, indeed, they had. Only these were pests of a different breed.

Mounds of earth appeared between the blades of grass — and the grass began to vanish.

“What are they?” I wailed to the children. Only they appreciate the close relationship between me and my lawn. Besides, a thick, healthy lawn is a status symbol — like a Persian rug or a Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce.

It has class.

And here, before my eyes, the class was being eaten away by all these rotten little mushy lawn gobblers.

And they're anonymous too.

“We don't know what they're really called,” said my local nurseryman when I inquired, “but they're ugly little devils, aren't they?”

“There are two ways to deal with them,” he added. “Either place snail bait down each hole, or make a mixture of detergent and water, and pour that down.

“Use cold water NOT hot water. That is most important. If you use hot water, they frizzle to a crisp before they've had time to emerge, and then you won't know whether or not your mission has been successful.

“Then, when the creature emerges, squash it flat.”

In a household of kids, dogs, cat and goldfish, snailbait was out of the question, so it was detergent and water to the rescue.

Now, we have a large lawn. In fact, nobody else in their right senses would have bought this large, old house with its large, old trees and large, old lawn, but we did because we got it cheaply and we have a large, old family.

Whom I immediately inspanned after a delicious breakfast of dried-out kippers and floppy eggs on soggy toast.

My husband, when informed how we would be spending the day, immediately set off to play tennis and hasn't been seen since.

That was over a week ago.

Meanwhile, back home on the range, we replaced him with Ralph's mate Robert Newman. All in all, a far better deal. Younger and more vigorous, he proved a whizz with the watering can.

“We've got to do this systematically,” I said to the kids, “otherwise we'll get confused with which holes are which.” So we cordoned off areas for attack.

Filling six buckets with soapy water, we advanced slowly, hole by hole.

Robert, Ralph and Jamie doubled as the annihilation squad. Armed with vicious-looking brooms, they bonked the crickets on their heads as they emerged.

It was astonishing! Out they popped in their hundreds, in their thousands.

It was just then that I noticed my youngest unmarried daughter of the pansy eyes and bugs-bunny smile had abandoned her bucket and was very busy at the site of 'done' holes.

On closer inspection, I observed she was erecting little matchbox crosses at each hole.

“Nicky, what on earth are you doing?” I cried. Stupid question. I could see what she was doing.

“I'm making each poor little murdered cricket a cross,” she said.

Silence.

“What makes you think they're Christian crickets?” asked Jamie.

An intelligent question, I thought, under the circumstances.

“Well, what else are they?” asked Nicky after some deliberation.

“They could be Jewish crickets, Muslim crickets, Buddhist crickets. They could even be agnostic or atheist crickets,” replied Jamie.

Which is why we have the only lawn in Parkwood with an interdenominational matchbox cemetery.

After we had slaughtered several hundred, my son Jamie, always perceptive, made a pertinent observation.

“Ma, what sex are these crickets?” he asked.

“Sex? Well I suppose they're boy crickets and girl crickets. Why?”

“Well, if they're male and female crickets, then why does only one pop out of each hole?”

“They're heterosexual,” muttered Ralph, who's in matric and knows these things.

“What is heterosexual?” asked Nicky.

“They're both — male and female, they go for each other.”

“Oh,” said Nicky, “you mean they're gay crickets.”

“No, stupid,” said Jamie. “Gay means when you like the same sex.”

“Well, I've looked at them carefully,” said Nicky with some asperity, “and I think they're all gay. They're identical.”

Indeed, I thought to myself. Now we have the only interdenominational, gay matchbox cemetery in Parkwood.

It took the entire morning to fill each hole and to extract and annihilate a cricket.

But finally, it was done.

The garden looked like a battle ground. Waterloo, Blood River, Dunkirk — take your pick. The lawn had totally disappeared under a carpet of foam.

“Right, troops, forward march. Rations are on the diningroom table,” I shouted to my motley lot of soldiers. Wet, bedraggled but triumphant.

Just then, the phone rang.

“Hello, Carol,” said my neighbour. “I'm phoning to tell you how impressed I am with your housekeeping. I know you've always been a stickler for cleanliness — but to wash your lawn, now that's really something.

“I want you to know that I've put your name forward on behalf of the Parkwood Residents' Association for the 'Green Garden Award' — I think you're remarkable.”

Who am I to talk about crickets and things? Who am I to disillusion him?

“Thank you,” I said, smiled and replaced the phone.

It rang again. “This is Miss Snodthorpe from the Cruelty to Dumb Creatures League. Someone has reported that you are indiscriminately slaughtering innocent creatures in your garden. I want you to know we are reporting and blacklisting you and that we regard you as a murderer.

“Thank you,” I said, smiled and replaced the phone.

Ah, well, you can't please everyone all the time.

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