When we moved to Tallahassee, Florida, in August 1994, we were full of optimism and ready for the next chapter. We had a new city, a new home, and a sense of adventure. What we didn’t have was any experience with cockroaches.
That changed pretty quickly.
It was one of those quiet evenings at home in the early months after the move. Jamie and Tanner were already in bed, and the apartment had settled into that peaceful lull that comes after a busy day with little kids. I was sitting on the couch doing homework, and Annette was reading.
That’s when we saw it.
A huge, rust-red bug was crawling on the vertical blinds in front of the sliding patio door. It was easily an inch and a half long, maybe more, and it was ugly. Neither of us had ever seen a cockroach before, but we looked at each other and silently agreed: That has to be a cockroach.
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| our cockroach looked like this AI-generated one |
We were both a little freaked out. Okay, a lot freaked out. This thing wasn’t just in the apartment; it was in our living room.
I got up and went to the furnace closet to retrieve our trusty can of Raid, which we had optimistically brought with us from Utah, never imagining we’d actually need it. I walked slowly toward the blinds, trying to work up the courage to spray the thing. Just as I got close, no joke, the roach launched itself off the blinds and flew directly at me.
I squealed. Not a manly yelp or a firm shout, an honest-to-goodness squeal.
It landed squarely in the middle of my back.
Now I was really screaming, “Get it off! Get it off!” while jumping around the room like a man on fire. Annette, who had already been on edge, started screaming too, mostly because I was screaming and flailing, and it was contagious.
Finally, the roach fell off my back and hit the floor. I gathered my wits (barely) and hit it with a good spray of Raid. It ran around in a chaotic zigzag for a few seconds, then flipped over on its back, legs twitching, and died.
Welcome to Florida.
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