Mrs. Miyagi and the Warm Smell of Leftover Sunshine

I'm going to do a little cursing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I fucking hate flies.

I can't stand their damn buzzing and their little grotesque metallic green bodies.

I fucking hate flies.
I hate that they land on the rim of glasses and tines of forks. That they walk their dirty little feet over every surface forcing me to follow around behind and sterilize. I feel like a gang of rude offensive bikers have laid claim to my apartment and are inviting their friends to come crash. Where are they coming from?!

I've spent most of my Friday night sitting here swearing and swatting and missing. Cursing and swatting and killing. SPLAT! You would think I would feel better but I am grossed out. Itchy and sticky and down right ornery.

I should run my central AC. Yes, I have it. But I don't like it. I spend half the year being cold that when Summer finally comes around bringing its sunshine and warm degrees like gifts to a hostess, why the hell shut the windows and make it an artificial 68?! I suppose the flies are consequences of fresh air.

Erin and I didn't grow up with air conditioning. We had cheaper ways to cool down...window screens, box fans, sprinklers, slip-n-slides, Popsicles and Jello Pudding Pops, (what I wouldn't give for either one of THOSE right now), cool baths and sleeveless nightgowns.

We grew up in the country so when it was time to come in for the night it was dark. D-A-R-K. You could see glow-bugs everywhere -- for what seemed like miles across the corn fields. There were bullfrogs and cicadas that would start making noises at night fall; sometimes it would start to sound like high-pitched static and then it would abruptly stop. Silence. Dark wonderful, warm, silence. At those moments you could hear Ernie Harwell and the Tiger's game on the AM radio that Poppa would be listening to in the garage as we went in to get ready for bed.

We had two cats that were allowed to go outside and at night they'd come in from their day adventure, curl up next to us and bring the smell of sweet green grass and leftover sunshine from their wanderings. I can sit here now and faintly remember this if I concentrate. (It's the same way I can remember the smell of Great Grandma Myrtle's Avon hand cream or my sister's Tinker-bell perfume). Just around the time we were climbing into bed the humidity would start to break and the big Maple trees out front would filter the breeze and you'd feel it begin cooling off -- perfectly timed to fall asleep. Night time lullaby of bullfrogs and branches swaying in the wind.

I would never have chosen central air over any of those memories.