Last year, I put my winter woolens in a clothes bag and added an ample supply of mothballs to guard against a pesky species that each year chews small holes in my favorite jackets, skirts and vests. Like most who work with fabrics and fibers, I have accumulated a persistent following of these small, 3/8-inch long moths. Generation after generation, they evolve—ever more resilient and resistant to the moth repellents I try to hold them in check. 

These übermoths, as I’ve begun to refer to them, have demonstrated a broad palette of tastes:  polyester, nylon, wool, cotton, synthetic blends. They have evolved to appreciate a menu certainly beyond what nature intended. They hatch from small, dot-size eggs into quarter-inch, tan worms—darkened by a mouth on the eating end. The worms eat their way to satiation, then form small cocoons, where they turn into tiny, tan-colored moths with dusty, translucent wings.

I know they are translucent because the residue on the wall—or my hand—when I squash one, shines slightly. It offers a microscopic glitter to accompany the small satisfaction in reducing the moth population.

My efforts to curb the alarming reproduction rates and seemingly undiminished appetites of these insects have ranged from the use of hazardous chemicals to earth-friendly herbal concoctions. I was alarmed to read that a 2006 study by University of Colorado molecular and cellular biologists showed conventional mothballs (and air fresheners) contain chemicals that cause cancer in rodents; their chemical components are classified by the National Toxicology Program as potential carcinogens. CU’s Ding Xue found the naphthalene in mothballs can block enzymes that normally prevent the formation of cancerous tumors. 

Such irony. The chief ingredient in mothballs allows cancer cells to grow, unchecked, but does little to deter these moths.

This year, I zipped open the clothing bag hanging in my closet. It is filled with wool favorites, tailored and lined garments that anchor memories and hold promises of formal and public occasions. Inside, I found that, while all my clothes now smell of mothballs, the moths were undeterred. During the warm months of storage, the moths had dined well. A pair of emerald green, polyester-lined wool slacks was eaten to the knees. The moths, catholic in their taste, had consumed both the wool and the polyester lining. Beneath the topstitched waistband and pleats, the pant legs hung in tatters. Littering the bottom of the clothing bag was an ample supply of moth dung. (Perhaps it was left by the moths in judgment of my taste? The tailored wool slacks, in St. Patrick’s day green, were purchased on sale.) 

I have tried herbal concoctions in my battle against these moths. And I will continue to do so. I prefer not to risk the side effects of naphthalene, nor to continue to inhale the sour smell of pent-up mothballs each time I open a clothing bag or winter closet. I have tried the herb pennyroyal and, its extract, pennyroyal oil. Years ago, I purchased “herbal pet collars” filled with the stuff.  My cats liked the minty smell and tolerated the oversized, refillable collars. (I stacked open bowls of pennyroyal leaves around my sewing area and on book shelves. The pennyroyal gathered a layer of dust and the moths lived on.) I squirted pennyroyal oil, from a local Mexican botanical store, on top of the herbs. I soaked rags in the oil. The moths lived on.

Then I read in a women’s magazine that orange peels deterred moths. I peeled and ate a dozen oranges—preserving the peels and placing them strategically at the bottom of my closet. The peels mildewed and turned brackish. The moths lived on.  

Another women’s magazine (are they onto my quest?) reported that lavender did the trick.  I tried sachets of lavender, bowls of lavender. The fragrance was evocative.  It reminded me of creased and folded linens, hand-embroidered tablecloths and lace doilies—like those stored in the dark hardwood bureau that stood in my grandmother’s dining room.  The moths enjoyed it too, I imagine, as they continued to eat their way through my clothes.

My favorite knitted vest, embroidered in colorful fruits and harvest vegetables, was  oddly and selectively consumed by the moths. The produce remained intact with the exception of one chenille embroidered squash.  Moths had consumed all but the last thread of knitted yarn—leaving behind a thin, flat and, now, transparent outline of color where the textured golden squash had been. My Boyds® Bears suffered similarly. Their snap lid storage container did little to slow the moths. One unfortunate bear had the elastic waist to his knitted sweater chewed away:  Tattered and un-knit yarn hung, where the ribbing once had been.
 
In my efforts to deter these moths perhaps I was not taking a lesson. After all, cedar closets went back generations—human that is—and our ancestors swore by them. They smelled so much better than mothballs. And lavender. Rather than re-lining my closets with expensive cedar paneling, I would increase the effectiveness by applying cedar oil.  After making a pilgrimage to yet another herbalist, I purchased a vial of concentrated cedar oil and applied the oil to the fir and pine shelving in my sewing area. The aromatic, oiled wood gathered dust. Need I say it? The moths lived on.

It soon will be time to store my woolens again, to wash, fold and put away my unused sewing fabrics and to shake the moth dung out of their box containers. This year, I’m wondering whether my cashmere-wool blend blazer by Valerie Stevens®—in soft, cloud grey—will survive. Already, a moth colony has chewed an oval patch on the collar. It looks like a small, flash fire has seared off the woolen nap. The bare spot is not quite the place for a decorative pin, but I put one there anyway. I love that blazer. And I continue my quest for the best herbal means to counter my militant, persistent übermoths.

Recently, I read in a magazine devoted to simplifying one’s life that whole cloves placed in the pockets of vulnerable woolen garments would deter these fabric moths. And a new sachet appeared on the market, containing fresh-smelling combinations of the herbs I’ve already tried in my quest. I also learned that this particular moth is called the Indian Cloth Moth and that environmentally friendly pesticide manufacturers have aimed their products at its attraction to certain pheromones.

Perhaps love is its vulnerable point.

Marilyn Fritzler, when not battling moths, enjoys quilting, fabric arts, gardening—and writing about those pursuits.  Her doctorate in communications is from the University of Illinois.