Four years ago, I moved back to Texas from California. After two weeks of living here, I realized we were going to have to do something about the mosquitoes. In the 25 years I’d been gone, they seemed to have grown larger, more intelligent, and much thirstier. My skin had become a bepoxed nightmare within days.
I immediately embarked on a mission to do something, anything, about the problem, quickly resorting to paying a local company to send a guy with a pesticide-blasting cannon strapped to his back to the house once every three weeks. The cannon, used to blast all the foliage on the property, was expensive—four figures yearly—and very…
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