Roaches—big ones, little ones, ones that flew—infested our Florida home when I was growing up. The kitchen was their capital city, and their spotty droppings littered the innards of most of our appliances. During the swampy summer nights, they would swarm from their hiding places, darting and flying around—seeking God knows what (food? cool air? kicks?), flapping their papery wings. I had to bat them off with a broom. It was disgusting. I hated it.
