Minnewaska Musings

Written By Paul Gremmels

Oh, how we hate the boxelder. Even the spelling of its name is contentious. Two words or one? Hyphenated or not?  And in particular, how we hate the bug who’s name it is derived from. And as far as burning the wood you may ask? A friend of mine calls boxelder the “cheap cigar of firewood.”

I like to call it the Manitoba Maple, because after all, it is a maple. Plus, it gives the tree a little more of a noble appeal. Evidently, you can make a type of syrup from its sap, but I’ve never heard of anyone actually doing it. The bugs though. Oh the bugs. Relentless legions of them attack our house every fall and they seem to have a special attraction to the detached garage. I don’t spray for them, but instead I wait them out. Complaining and  grateful that they do not bite.

We had a bad storm last spring that took most of the roof off of our house. Of course many trees went down all over the area. Beautiful oaks, pines and ash snapped off and knocked down like bowling pins. There is a gnarled, old boxelder to the east of our house that lost a couple of branches. There it was, in the wake of the storm, standing stoic and smug in its resilience. Its bark is twisted and nearly black in color and I must admit that it looks interesting and other-worldly when silhouetted against a red morning sunrise. Nothing fancy or spectacular. Just a survivor.

The bugs continue their march on our garage. If the forecast is correct, it will only last another day, as it looks to be much colder by tomorrow evening. In the meanwhile, the bugs pile up upon each other in the sun baked corner of the garage. Seeking shelter from the coming winter that they somehow know is near.

I looked closely at the individual bugs. Each one is slightly different. Sharp, dusky red lines against a black background. Sure, they are an incredible annoyance, but what I was trying to do is to find something useful or at least interesting in the harmless creature’s existence. Come springtime, I’ll sweep them out of that corner, noting that no more than a third of them will have survived the winter.

The late Bill Holm put it best in his poem about the dreaded, but colorful bug.

“I want so little, for so little time.

A south window, a wall to climb.

The smell of coffee, a radio knob.

Nothing to eat, nothing to rob.

Not love, not power.

Not even a penny.

Forgive me only,

For being so many.”