I remember last summer with its mascara melting temperatures wishing only for the fall and the sight of glorious autumn colors. Then of course fall comes around, and I then proceed to curse the leaves which haven’t stayed fabulously autumnal but have dropped in the direction of dead thence to coat yards, sidewalks and roadways in a sodden slimy mess.
I then get a touch nostalgic and think of the crisp cold days of winter and look forward to whatever time off I may have by snuggling down with a good book and a perky glass of red. Then winter comes blasting in and I start to lose my happy thoughts about our northern neighbor and curse Canada to perdition for sharing its arctic air so freely with us. I thumb my nose at it in February, and staunchly refuse to wear a coat, caring not how cold it gets.
Naturally thoughts then turn to spring, when the first time I step into the sun and feel the tiniest bit of warmth, I fancy myself in gorgeous weather ideally in the low 70s with many long and basking hours out on the deck watching the world – and the ducks - go by.
And so early on in this season, I’m afraid to say reality has already set in. If the wind doesn’t stop fairly soon you may have to check me into a ‘facility’ – each year I forget how wind makes me cranky and I’d like it to stop without veering off into tornadic byways along the way.
Our long and basking hours out on the deck so far have consisted of a couple of early evenings, and my naïve nostalgia for the season is having a bit of a wane. Take for example yesterday. I got home from work, ready to enjoy some quality time on the deck with Sir. Out I go to find Sir surrounded by the citronella lamps afire, cans of Raid and wasp spray, and his trusty bug-zapping plastic $4.50 tennis racket I bought him as a gag last year.
Taking my first sip of wine I became aware of a rather persistent and I might say quite peeved-sounding buzzing around me. I am a total wuss when it comes to stinging insects and I realized that what was buzzing me were a couple of very cranky bumble hornets. They were huge, and I know they weren’t happy fat little bumble bees, and I knew with my paranoia in full bloom that they were out to get me.
My very own Sir (Galahad) valiantly fought off the vampire stingers with several swipes of the racket which could have put John McEnroe to shame, but almost had to resort to hand-to-hand combat to vanquish the savage beasts which had taken on the size by then of the abominable snowman. I feared he would have to resort to the chair and the whip.
So now, roll on summer when the wind behaves itself and it’s quite frankly too hot for deck languishing.
All hail you humble insect screen and air con. All hail.
Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at firstname.lastname@example.org.