They’re everywhere this year — decimating rose petals, digging deep in the comfrey blossoms, skeletonizing leaves across the garden.

Invasive. Ravenous. Destructive.

Japanese beetles.

Their iridescent shells are unmistakeable, and to an uninitiated eye, might even appear beautiful. Exotic. But the sight of them evokes horror in the hearts of farmers and gardeners. In my own garden, I’ve declared war. If the scenes of carnage aren’t enough to convince you of the righteousness of my cause, perhaps a quick detour to a technicolor childhood memory might shed some light on my deep-rooted aversion.

When I was young, summer inevitably meant seemingly unending sun-filled days at the pool. Ah, vacation! We’d spend many long hours swimming, playing Marco Polo, practicing underwater bubble talk conversations, jumping and diving off the diving boards. We were innocent and carefree, until…when upon surfacing from a mermaid glide or an underwater quest, a sibling or friend would point at our head with a shaking finger and emit the dreaded cry, “Japanese beetle!”

Or, even worse, I would reach up to smooth my hair back, and find a beetle, fully entrenched. That horrible, sickening feeling as my fingers contacted that tell-tale squirmy-legged hard carapace–and then instantly recoiled—is etched in my memory. The beetles were determined, clinging to each strand of hair with their segmented legs, fighting to maintain their hold while I battled with two strong emotions– desperation to remove them and a deep-seated aversion to touching them. I’d dive under water again and again, shaking my head vigorously. Each time I resurfaced, I’d reach up a hand to check with hesitant, trembling fingers…

Was it still there?

It always was.

Inevitably, I’d have to pull the beetle all the way down the tangled strands of my long, wet hair to GET. IT. OFF! It would cling. I’d tug and pull for as long as I could stand it. Over and over again. Ugh! The memory still makes me shudder.

These days the beetles are on my patch again, but I’m far less worried about touching them. They may have invaded in force, but I’m the Grim Reaper. With my bottle of soapy water in hand, I walk through my gardens, ruthlessly plucking them from their perches. I delight as each one softly splashes into my deathly concoction. Often they’re entangled in stacks of two or three, engaged in God-knows-what sort of beetle perversions. I push the clustered creatures into my Dawn-scented pool of death and delight in the added efficiency. One. Two. Three. I feel a bit like the brave little tailer of fairy tale lore as I crow, “Three with one blow!”

Things have changed a lot since I was seven.