Monday, August 15, 2022
My house is full of flies, determined creatures way outnumbering my ability to control, or well, you know, kill the pesky intruders.
The person currently replacing my floor coverings keeps a large door wide open while working. That way, he exits quickly, carrying flooring, accesses a large power saw, and re-enters quickly. I’m okay with anything, even having a constant fly swatter in one hand, that facilitates flooring progress.
My home is chaotic. Furniture is shoved to the sides of rooms. Object collections, typically on display, are piled into boxes or stashed, unorganized, in guest bathrooms. Often, I can’t find a darned object on my mind. In searching for the darn thing, I might find something reminding me of an active interest in the “old floor” days. That sidetracks me until flies show up and I must find a swatter.
Targeting flies resembles pursuing mice. Spotting one creates the assumption of another thousand lurking nearby.
I’m also after mice. They’re rampant in the barn area. After turning my cat, Maxwell, into an inside-only guy so that the likable small wild critters may live and thrive, mice numbers have grown. Trying to trap them is frustrating.
In house and barn, I’m victimized by creatures low on the totem pole.
As always, there’s hope. Max could again be free to do his job. Cooling weather should reduce the fly population. My floors will be renewed, and disarranged items will be sorted. Basically, all these current annoyances will become history.
Dear Friends: Occasional episodes seemingly beyond our control take patience. Diana