Lord of the Flies

This week John is shooting in a trap tournament in Syracuse, the Fall State ATA Championships, and we are parked right on the grounds of the shoot. It’s a pretty sight. Yards and yards of green grass, with trees surrounding us on all sides, as much to mask the sound of gunshots as to provide a visual point of reference for the shooters.

There are some real yahoos in this sport, some of whom never bother to put their teeth in while they’re here, but there are also some very nice people, some of whom are actually educated.

And I haven’t had to cook, since restaurants abound here are varied and plentiful, if not sophisticated. So all is well.

Except for the flies. There’s a swamp in the back of the field, and apparently it’s a breeding ground, because we can’t seem to get rid of them.

Right now I am competing for line of sight to my computer screen, attended by one very nosy fly, who seems to treasure every word I write. Well, treasure this, you annoying, flitty, buzzy critter! Damn. Missed him.

My husband is the champion fly swatter of the world. Never misses a one. It must be his trap shooting training. Quick of the eye and quick of the wrist. He’s the king. And he keeps leaving the carcasses for me to admire, and of course, clean up.

Me, I even approach one from three feet away and it flies off. Does this mean I have a special psychic emanation that the fly picks up? Or heaven forfend, a sweat emanation? Or does it mean that I am slow on the draw? The only ones I’ve gotten at the ones on the ceiling, presumably because they can’t see me coming when they’re upside down.

I don’t mind so much during the day, but at as the sun rises after a quiet, dark night, so do the one or two flies who have managed to evade Lord John, and they always head for my nose or my arm, or some other body part I have sticking out of the sheets. It’s not nice to wake me this way. I do not respond well to tickling. Soon I am slapping the air, slapping myself and grumbling at the cruel world. And of course it’s impossible to go back to sleep. The flies must die. So here I am in my nightgown, standing on the bed, my hair sticking out from my head so that I look like the Madwoman of Chaillot, swinging and missing and swatting and swearing.

One of these days I may even succeed. Then I’ll have a little fly funeral in the bathroom, and as I flush, I’ll chuckle the little bugger all the way to Hell.
Betty