My wife and I were sitting in our living room, engaging in the Mobius strip of Netflix scrolling. We had survived the eight months of winter and relished the 23 hours of spring. The weather alert on our computer advised that the night was to be clear with a full moon.

“Hey, Jane. Let’s take a romantic walk. It’s supposed to be lovely tonight.”

“Let me just grab my coat.”

“Jane, it’s June.”

“Right. I’ll grab a scarf, too.”

We stepped outside, and to our surprise, it was completely overcast. I guess the weather forecast was wrong. But then I heard the ominous, spine-tingling humming.

“Jane, run for it!” But I was too late. The cloud of mosquitoes had already latched onto her and was airlifting her back to Half Moon Lake. 

As anyone who lives here knows, we have an overabundance of blood-sucking vermin in Wisconsin. In fact, Eau Claire would be an ideal place for a medieval barber to practice medicine. I imagine it would go something like this:

Barber: What seems to be the problem?

Peasant: It’s my son. He’s got a touch of the Black Death.

Barber:  Well, that’s going around. What your son needs is a good blood letting.

Peasant:  That makes sense. Should I bring him to your office?

Barber: No need. Just have him take a hike at Lowes Creek Park near sunset. Here’s your bill. You owe me two chickens and a dead cat.

Peasant: Dead cat? Why do you need a dead cat?

Barber: I can’t tell you. I’m not allowed to reveal the secrets of the pharmaceutical industry.

It makes me wonder why I still live in Eau Claire. Recently, my wife and I flew out to California to visit our friends, Lew and Mary Ann. They didn’t have any mosquitoes. They had clouds of Monarch butterflies. Butterflies! I was wandering under their lemon trees while they and my wife lounged on the deck, unbothered by any biting insects. As I joined them on their deck, I started to strip down.

Lew: Um, what are you doing?

Me: I walked through some tall grass, so you know the routine.

Lew: No. No, I do not.

Jane: I have to look for bullseyes.

Lew: Bullseyes on his back?

Jane: Yes.

Lew: Little paranoid, aren’t you?

Me: Not where ticks are concerned.

Lew: Oh, we don’t have ticks.

Me: You … don’t have ticks? So, no Lyme’s Disease?

Lew: Lyme’s disease? Is that something you get from drinking too many margaritas?

I found their ignorance of blood-borne pathogens wonderfully refreshing. I looked at all of the pluses for living in California: no winters, close to the Pacific Ocean, and fewer chances of dying from a lingering illness. I had to move to California!

Me: I want to be your new neighbor. How much is a house here?

Lew: Our house is worth $1.3 million.

Me: $1.3 million? But, but, your house is SMALLER than our house in Wisconsin! 

Lew: That’s the going rate.

We flew back to Wisconsin with a greater appreciation for our hometown after all. Jane and I sat on the back patio of our house that was one-eighth the price of a house in California. A mosquito landed on my tricep and plunged his proboscis into my soft tissue. I smiled at her benevolently and said, “God bless you, my little housing market deflator.” SMACK. “Rest in peace.”