The longest trip I have ever taken was not across an ocean.

It did not require a passport or a suitcase.

It was approximately three hundred feet.

I left my house early one September morning in Texas with every reasonable expectation of returning unchanged.

There were thousands of them.

They were in love.

I was not.

They are called lovebugs, which is an unnecessarily charming name for something capable of turning a perfectly respectable white house into a scene from The Twilight Zone.

Apparently, they like white. My house is cedar and white. The cedar, it seems, has been largely innocent. The white is guilty.

That afternoon, couples had gathered everywhere. On the house. Around the porch. Across the yard. Floating through the air joined together in the sort of public affection that, under ordinary circumstances, I would consider none of my business.

Several thousand couples later, I had developed opinions.

The next morning, I woke before they did. At approximately five o’clock, preparations began.

First came the lithium battery blower—a machine powerful enough to relocate leaves, small branches, and possibly an unattended child.

Then I remembered the enormous industrial fan in the barn.

Its actual name is Big Ass Fan.

I did not name it.

But there are moments in life when the right equipment presents itself, and one should not question Providence.

The fan will be moved to the house and positioned toward the approaching invasion. Anything attempting final approach will be redirected toward Louisiana.

There will also be a sprinkler. Not because lovebugs particularly object to water, but because by this point, I felt the operation deserved naval support.

It is September in Texas. Water falling from the sky is largely theoretical anyway. At these temperatures, a sprinkler does not create puddles. It creates a brief suggestion of moisture before the sun takes it personally.

Then I remembered the incense.

I had Lavender. Vanilla.

And Dragon’s Blood.

There are times when a name is enough.

Dragon’s Blood has therefore been assigned to psychological operations.

I briefly considered a scarecrow.

There are limits to how far a reasonable woman should go.

I have not reached them.

Perhaps this is the longest trip I have ever taken. Three hundred feet across my own property—armed with a blower, defended by an industrial fan, supported by a sprinkler, accompanied by Portuguese Dragon’s Blood, and facing several thousand creatures whose only apparent offense is being excessively happy in my general vicinity.

I have traveled much farther. But distance, I am beginning to understand, is a poor way to measure a journey.

Sometimes the longest trip is simply from the front door to the other side of the yard.

Especially when everyone you meet along the way is on their honeymoon.