It was weird. In late June/early July, there were suddenly a number of flies in our house, more than we had seen in the past ten years collectively. Many of them stayed close to the back door or back window, but a few ventured onto the kitchen sink or counter.
I wondered if the extreme heat and humidity were a factor. Meanwhile, I pulled out the flyswatter, which I hadn’t used in years. I was extremely successful in assassinating the insects. Normally, I might kill one in every 10 or 12 attempts. But these buggers were sluggish, and I was successful about 40% of the time, usually when they first landed.
Then I noticed that the back-door windows and screens were misaligned, probably to let Stormy, the indoor cat, see outside. As soon as I adjusted them, the insurrection ended.
I am the Lord of the flies. (Yes, I know the specifics of the 1954 William Golding book. But think about it: in a presumably civilized society, how often does one get to kill indiscriminately? I’m a pacifist when it comes to people. But insects? An invading horde of bugs? I show no mercy!)
Camping
This reminded me of my family going camping when I was growing up. My father, who was a Boy Scout, loved it. The rest of us ranged from tolerating it to hating it. I was in the latter category. It didn’t matter that I had helped put up the tent the previous year; it was still a struggle.
The place had a concrete bathroom with many flies. Yuck. I took my newspaper, or maybe a magazine, and I had done it! I had killed SEVEN WITH ONE BLOW! Of course, I had read The Brave Little Tailor. Unfortunately, my insecticide was the highlight of the trip.
One other recollection. My father, when he would come to the elementary classes of my sister Leslie and me for about three years, would often sing The Old Lady and the Fly. But, if I’m recalling correctly, he got a more demanding job. So I went down to my baby sister’s kindergarten class, and I sang for them, perhaps only once.
We are a fly people.