Death by Caterpillar and the Extravagantly Wealthy Toothpaste Artist

Now, I must admit that my appreciation and therefore understanding of the furry variety of caterpillar begins and ends with a childhood recollection that these little guys have the reputation in the insect world as fairly adept meteorologists. Their Nostradamian predictions of future weather patterns are that of folklore and I have always been skeptical of this claim. “Wooly Worms”, as I have always known them, are said to indicate the severity of an oncoming Winter with their fashion come Fall. If they are as hairy as my Uncle Jeb, then the winter will be particularly harsh. If on the other hand, they have but a five o’clock shadow, Winter will be a conga line of pool parties and back yard barbeques. Perhaps this is an exaggeration since I don’t actually have an Uncle Jeb, but I think you get the point. I seriously doubt the veracity of their claims each year and have always presumed them to be in some duplicitous conspiracy with Punxsutawney Phil, the other great liar of the animal kingdom. So, imagine my dismay when I ran across one of these little barometers making his way in a rather leisurely fashion across my driveway. If their appearance in the Fall serves to predict the weather for the coming Winter, what does their appearance in the Spring indicate? More importantly, what am I to look for as an indicator of their prediction? Sunglasses? A Brazilian bikini wax? I was sorely tempted to pick him (or her . . . how do you determine the sex a caterpillar anyway) up for closer examination, but instead I let him meander upon his merry way.

It wasn’t but a day or so later that an enlightening conversation with my two children required me to do a little research. When I had mentioned the sighting, my eldest laughed and indicated that his French classmates are terrified of them and insist that they could kill you. I immediately required a wet-nap (in looking for the appropriate spelling of this moist towelette, I won’t even tell you what I found . . . a few fairly disturbing definitions in the online Urban Dictionary that are worth a blushing giggle, but are not for the faint of heart) to swab the snot off the front of my shirt from an uncontrollable snorting fit of laughter. “Chenilles” is what they are called here in France and you apparently pronounce that “Sha-neez”. I easily verified in my handy dandy French to English dictionary that “Chenilles” does in fact translate to “Caterpillar”. In a country in which male bravado is measured by the size of your “Murse” (Man Purse), why am I not surprise that they shriek and run in fear from a little Caterpillar. I dismissed the deadly claims and sent the children out to play. Still, something about our conversation stuck with me and warranted a little looksee on the internet. What I found had me throwing open the back door and demanding the children to huddle up for a little discussion about the hazards found in their own back yard. Here is the thing, in a land essentially devoid of venomous snakes and other creepy crawlies that we all know too well, I guess you have to have something to fear in the great outdoors, so why not man eating caterpillars?

So, what is all the hubbub about? They are called Processionary Caterpillars(Chenilles Processionnaires), and as it turns out, these little bastards pack an anaphylactic wallop. Prevalent in the coniferous forests of Southern France and Northern Spain, they coat everything in their swarming path with tiny little quills with a toxin that can cause anything from an inconvenient skin irritation to a full on cessation of the respiratory process when inhaled. And somehow I just knew there was a hidden danger lurking on the Camino de Santiago, I just didn’t imagine that it would arrive in the form of a Killer Wooly Worm. Still, I feel much more confident now that I am armed with the necessary field experience to see me through. I only hope that when I encounter one of these devils in the woods that I am fleet enough to outrun it on foot. Wish me luck.

On an unrelated but equally fascinating front, another astute observation by my eldest son has left me scratching my head a bit. Standing before the mirror in our bathroom, laying a perfectly placed dollop of Aquafresh on this toothbrush he turns to me and asks, “Dad, how much money do toothpaste artists make?”. Not entirely prepared for such and inquiry, I asked “What is a toothpaste artist?”. He said, “You know, the guy that makes the toothpaste look so perfect in the commercials.” Before I had a chance to answer, he followed with “Seems like it would be an easy job, see look . . . “. And at once he turned, wielding his toothbrush like a sword to present his masterfully laid bead of toothpaste with the point curling ever so slightly northward. “Impressive” I responded. What else was I to say, I was indeed truly impressed. Though, upon reflection, he seemed less impressed than I when he heard my response. I told him that while I wasn’t positive, I was fairly certain that this vocation that he sought did not in fact exist even though he was without doubt the most qualified person ever for such a post. I admitted that I suspected that this was likely just one in a long list of duties which fell on the shoulders of the advertising equivalent of a set designer, someone with artistic skills without doubt, but someone whose entire paycheck was NOT subsidized by the toothpaste industry.

It is important to note that I am not in the habit of playing the role of “dream killer” with my children, so I left the door open just a crack by saying that I have been wrong before and there is a chance that there is someone out there who truly makes their living by applying perfectly formed toothpaste sculptures to freshly unpackaged toothbrushes. I went on to add that if such an artist did exist, he would certainly be this mediums Picasso and leave this world a truly wealthy man. With that, I gave him a kiss on his forehead and sent him to bed, his head filled with dreams of becoming the next Bruce Wayne of the toothpaste industry. Defeating foes and saving teeth, one Gotham citizen at a time. I love my children. R.