The Flies of February

There’s this hedge—some kind of evergreen—in the neighborhood. It is swarming with flies. Yes, in the month of February. I was, very literally, assaulted by these irritating insects as I passed by. From a fair distance, I had witnessed my mailman walk that very route before me. No doubt he was targeted, too, by the mob. Granted, the experience was not quite an Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds-style attack, but it was nevertheless as unpleasant as it was unexpected. And the time of year compounded the unpleasantness.

I was heading home from an errands’ run—just a few days after an unwelcome blizzard—and encountering myriad obstacles along the way. Somebody didn’t shovel his or her sidewalk. Okay, backtrack and locate the nearest cleared driveway. Venture then out into the street to bypass the obstruction. Walking, though, on snowstorm-narrowed streets with two-way traffic is a problem in and of itself. While New York City’s very generous salt spreading policy obviously has its benefits, there is a definite downside. You could get clipped by one of the spreaders or slip and fall on the massive amounts of rock salt on the road.

So, really, the Flies of February aren’t appreciated, particularly when they don’t keep to themselves. These irksome winged bugs don’t have a very long lifespan even in the best of times. Being hatched in the cold climes means they are in their prime and even their golden years—metaphorically speaking—without the best of summer’s stink at their disposal.

I see the Flies of February as emblematic of where we currently stand. Forty-three years ago today, I was enjoying the first of three snow days. Courtesy of the Blizzard of ’78, the high school grind came to a grinding halt for one brief shining moment. The city's Department of Sanitation didn’t throw nearly as much ice melter back then or plow the streets as often as they do now. From blizzard to blizzard, I could never have envisioned the depths of the changes in the world we call home. Jimmy Carter was the president in 1978; Joe Biden was in the Senate back then. He’s been around a long time.

I love what Senator Ben Sasse had to say upon being censured by Nebraska Republicans: “You are welcome to censure me again—but let’s be clear about why: It’s because I still believe (as you used to) that politics is not about the weird worship of one dude.” Not only were the blizzards better in 1978, but the political scene certainly was, too.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the crazy spectrum, woke insanity marches on undeterred. It’s unbelievable—and downright sad—what The New York Times, the Gray Lady, has become. If you haven’t heard the latest, search the name “Donald G. McNeil, Jr.” He was a reporter with the newspaper for a very long time. Read his apology letter for his alleged sin. The mob’s taken down another one. Does McNeil actually believe he committed a transgression? Probably not. He should, though, have gone out with his head held high, not with a coerced hostage-like confession letter.

The cudgel du jour is feeling unsafe, even—God help us—in the newspaper business. I feel unsafe, so I want you out of here, rendered null and void. This kind of thing—a new kind of McCarthyism being welcomed in journalism of all places—was not happening at The New York Times or elsewhere when that nor’easter struck with a vengeance in February 1978 and when Jimmy Carter was fifty-three, not ninety-six. Insanity to the right of me, insanity to the left of me, and the Flies in February—I say no thanks to all three.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)