OP-ED: Munching moths making meals of my Merino
For 12 years, during the week, I worked out of an apartment in Pittsburgh. When COVID hit, I moved back home full time. The problem is I did not move back alone. Somewhere between the packing and the movers, a few stowaways hitched a ride. When I opened my closet this summer, two tiny, beige, harmless looking moths emerged. They had to have been Pittsburgh moths because they possess the appetite of a piranha and the cunning of a cat burglar.
For reasons known only to entomologists and specific members of the insect kingdom, these Pittsburgh moths have developed a particular fondness for only my good clothes. If it is labeled Merino, cashmere, or wool, it’s feast time. Polyester? Not interested. Nylon? Oh, heck not. But my best sweaters rate a Michelin-star.
These little vagabonds aren’t just surviving on my clothing, they are thriving. I can imagine them going through my closet like a gourmet in search of the chef’s personal tasting menu. I can hear it now, “Tonight’s special is vintage Merino wool with just a hint of aloe cream and a whisper of Nick’s aftershave. Bon appétit.”
You know what really upsets me? These little bandits are not subtle. This morning, I reached for one of my favorite sweaters. You know, it is the kind of sweater that makes you feel like a CEO on a casual Friday. It looked like I had been in a miniature gunfight. Two more sweaters and dozens of little holes later, the verdict was the same. The moths had struck again. I looked like I’d been attacked by a gang of rabid squirrels.
I’ve done everything you’re supposed to do. I’ve hung those sticky pheromone catchers that promise to “end infestations fast.” They are sticky as heck, and they really do look impressive, but they only catch the lazy moths. The SEAL Team Six moth-squad flies past them laughing at the stuck corpses of their less-skilled brethren.
I’ve tried cedar, but it isn’t cedar smelling long enough to stop them. I’ve tried lavender. I’ve even tried reasoning with them. I say, “Look, we share the space. Please just go for the cheap wool socks.” But they want couture. They’re like insects raised on Central Park West.
I’m starting to think this is personal. Let’s face it, these Pittsburgh moths might have been raised blue-collar, but they are clearly upwardly mobile. I can hear them bragging to their moth cousins back home: “Yeah, we made it out. We’re in the burbs now. It’s a nice, dark, two-door closet, and you wouldn’t believe the Merino out here.”
I’ve done a lot of research on these critters, and I know now that it is their larvae that do the damage. The adults lay their eggs, and for months their little caterpillars are crawling through my wardrobe like underage drinkers at an unsupervised graduation party. Some nights I actually think I can hear them munching while I sleep. I can imagine the conversations in my closet. “Hey, Frank, try this one. This stuff melts in my mandibles!”
Some directions say to freeze your sweaters. Others say heat treatments work. I tried both. My freezer now looks like Admiral Perry’s polar boutique. I keep picking frozen peas off my sweaters. The hot dryer didn’t work either. The sweaters look like they would fit on a Ken doll, yet somehow, the moths endure. These Pittsburgh moths are hardy stock. I guess if they can survive a winter at Acrisure Stadium flying over tailgaters’ grills cooking kielbasa, a little heat or cold isn’t going to stop them.
So yes, I’ve resigned myself to sharing space with these ravenous fashion buffs. The good news is that since I am mostly retired, no one cares what I wear.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to buy another pheromone trap. The moths call it a decoy. I call it hope.
Nick Jacobs resides in Windber.