Let me talk a little bit about yesterday. If I had to sum it up in one word, it would be F L I E S followed by tens of trillions of exclamation points (not depicted here). But not just any flies, the biting kind. I don’t know what they were, where they came from, or how long they live. What I do know is they hate me with a special kind of poison, and they woke up that morning vowing to make me eye-twitchingly, blood-boilingly, brain-explodingly insane. I was out in the fields planting in the morning — trying to, anyway, between swatting the flies away — and was moderately shattered when I learned that I needed to stay down there and weed the beets. By that point, it was clear the tide of flies was steadily rising. They hid in the ditches, and you could actually hear the throng emerging from the leaves as you walked by. Unfortunately I was wearing shorts so my legs were an ample target, but I did have a sweater to put back on, hood and all, so that protected me somewhat. Of course, it also made me very warm, and murder-hungry. At any one time, I probably had about five or ten flies on me, while dozens buzzed around me. Deet didn’t help, as I was later told it wouldn’t, but I kept applying it because I didn’t know what else to do. At one point I ran out of swear words. I was thirsty, but there were another dozen or so flies on the lid of my water at any given time, most likely depositing gifts of fly vomit and untold other treasures, so I didn’t want to drink it. I left the farm dejected, angry, and mentally praising mosquitoes, yes mosquitoes, for not being half as terrible in this small part of the world as that dreaded, awful fly.
So then today there weren’t any flies at all. The crowds rejoiced. I rejoiced. I had a gin rickey in toast of a fly-free summer. The end.
And here’s one last early summery columbine for you: