Elizabeth Brown

My mother-in-law was a bit of a hoarder, so when cleaning out her house after she died, I wasn’t surprised to find four spools of fly paper neatly stacked in a drawer.  We threw away more than 20 dumpsters of random stuff, but I have kept the flypaper on my bookshelf.

These rolls effortlessly transport me to childhood summers when our house would suddently be innundated with flies, Biblical in proportion.  My competitive mother handed out strips to each of us kids.  The challenge was to find the most fruitful location for hanging.  The winner was whoever had the most flies on their flypaper after one week.  No cash reward, pride was the prize.     

I was conflicted about the spot I chose above the mynha bird cage next to the deep-freeze.  While a high traffic spot dotted with tempting crumbs, this location offered a troubling first impression to anyone walking through the door.  Even at a young age, I realized that a twirling piece of fully-loaded flypaper suggests an inattention to basic hygiene, and at its worst, dead meat, human or otherwise.  

As a writer, I have used this memory to add atmosphere to my scenes.  If I want decadence, I go for the flies.  If I want quirkiness or humor, I go for the flies.  Flies and death are an evocative combo.  I have seen this same effect in the works of such luminaries as Vladimir Nabokov, Gustave Flaubert and Mark Twain.