“I never ever saw the northern lights
I never really heard of cluster flies
Never ever saw the stars so bright
In the farmhouse things will be alright.”
-Phish
Poetic, yes.
Accurate, not so much.
Arriving exhausted after a grueling dozen-hour drive from Washington D.C. to our new/old farmhouse in Charlotte, things were definitely not all right.
In fact, they were more like a scene from a horror film–not just “The Fly,” mind you, but a small city of flies, all just dying to say “Howdy!” I thought I had died and gone to whatever circle of hell these creatures inhabit.
Cluster flies aka Pollenia rudis, aptly named, thrive on light and warmth, both of which could be found in abundance on a balmy August night on the second floor of our unfurnished 1860s farm house.
With the first flick of a lamp came the air attack. There were plenty for Phish food, but too many to swat, and there was no fly spray in “da house,” and no vacuum cleaner, which was on its way up with the movers.
Only a lowly shop vac in the basement stood between us and insanity.
Round one: Humans!
Unfortunately, the shop vac had no bag, and the cluster flies’ wrath no bounds, as they swarmed back out the nozzle — thoroughly unamused.
Round two: Flies!
We thought perhaps we might wear them out, so once again they were vacuumed and out they promptly came. ‘Till we realized that it was the light that attracted them and in the darkness the attacks would abate.
Sleeping with the sheet over our heads, we were able to endure the sporadic stealth attacks, loud buzzing and dive-bombing.
Now, cluster flies have a relatively short shelf life of about 12 hours, I would later learn, but these suckers were hours from their expiration dates. After the air attacks came the land offensives–loud break dancing (spinning in little circles, pause, then spin again) and the sickening infernal hum.
In the morning we rose to the crunch, crunch, crunch of the dead carcasses under our feet — so many they had turned the lovely old pine floors black. The battle raged that day and into the night, while we called exterminators who would bomb the house but needed a day’s notice. (“Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, creeps in its petty pace.”)
We learned the skylights we had installed in the bedroom and adjoining bathroom to bring light had also brought the dormant creatures to life. We had effectively hung out a large banner that read “Welcome, cluster flies — be fruitful and multiply.” Cluster flies have simple needs: First they want in, and having hibernated sufficiently, then all they want is out.
Even after the bombing, it would be weeks before we finally killed off all their descendants–weeks of the hideous daytime hum, which started at the bottom of the stairs (cue the scary music) and grew to deafening levels as scores of flies head-banged into the skylights, in a futile attempt at escape (or was it mass suicide?) leaving us to clear the carnage.
Finally, with the first freeze they were gone. And though they have made their appearance every spring and fall since — in smaller, more tolerable numbers, I have developed a more laissez-faire attitude over the years.
Live and let die, which I know they will do unassisted.
My first Vermont lesson: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, and the wisdom to know when to call the exterminators.
Barbara Ann Curcio of Charlotte is a former reporter and columnist for The Washington Post.
