A Different Kind of Day, Week, Month, Year...

I think it’s safe to say that, for me—and probably for about every person on the planet—every day during this pandemic period feels different from anything we have ever perceived as “normal”: it’s a little weird; sometimes frightening; always stressful, sometimes overtly, sometimes subtly. Brugger and I are fortunate that, at least for now, we are still able to work from home, so we are not facing truly desperate times, as so many of us are. This could change tomorrow, or next week, or next month, but I have become somewhat more adept at living each day for what it is rather than looking at every potential dire thingummy lurking around the next bend, which has been my typical modus operandi. So, Ms. B. and I are trying to make the best of each day, take every measure to keep ourselves free of COVID-19 cooties, and basically live for life—responsibly and with care for our neighbors. There are way, way too many people refusing to take this global situation seriously, and I am afraid they are the reason we aren’t going to see appreciably better days anytime soon.

It’s Memorial Day weekend, and some of the restrictions in the state have eased a bit (which means that a huge percentage of the population is out there gathering and celebrating as if COVID-19 is a thing of the past; damned fools). Last night, Ms. B. and I had our friends Terry and Beth over to my place, where we gathered (at a very suitable distance) under the canopy tent I had picked up a while back for this year’s Oktoberfest in Martinsville, which may or may not actually happen. We all supplied our own wine, wine glasses, appetizers, and such, and we ordered pizza out from Marco’s Pizza, which is our favorite pizza joint around here. The evening turned out to be pleasant beyond pleasant. I trust our friends had a nice time.

This morning, a couple of new geocaches came out in High Point, so I set after them and snagged FTFs (first-to-find) on both. The cats and I have been hard at work on a new short story (see “Country of the Snake,” Friday, May 22), but I’ve spent so much time editing out cat words that, this afternoon, just for shits and giggles, I set up my home office outside under the canopy. It was muggy as hell and the mosquitoes were plentiful, but the fan blowing and a good dousing of bug spray kept things tolerable out there—although I think a couple of the little bastards got through to my feetz. Damned bloodsuckers. I put the cats to work researching stuff for me. You can guess how that went.

A little while ago, I managed to get the canopy back inside just before the big thunderstorms set in (which are dumping something fierce right about now). And tomorrow, barring really nasty weather, there is Memorial Day geocaching on the docket. Here’s hoping. And please, do remember what Memorial Day is actually all about. Try asking yourself: are you conducting yourself during this bad spell in a way that honors what so many members of our armed services fought and died for? If you’re protesting wearing masks, mocking people who do, willfully ignoring social distancing, and otherwise denying that we have a true crisis through which we should all be working together, I would say the only thing you are honoring is your own petty, selfish ego. This is especially egregious for those of you who claim to be Christians. I know an awful lot of you who fit this shameful bill.

Do better. Please.

Hey, look! Brugger has tamed the wild beast atop her head... at least for the time being.

Research assistant researches

Droolie impersonates stuffed tiger, emphasis on “stuffed.”

Don’t Get Bitten by the Bug

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COVID-19 isn’t the only nasty bug to try like hell to avoid. It has turned out to be a baaaad tick season this year. I’ve found way too many of these vile critters crawling on me after hiking these past few weeks. Particularly hateful are seed (larval) ticks, most of which are no bigger than a poppy seed (and I've found some even smaller). Unlike the bites from most adult ticks, these tend to sting and itch maddeningly very shortly after the little fucker has latched onto you. While I hesitate to classify this as a good thing, the distinctive pain is about the only way you’ll ever know the hellish bastard has gotten you. The ticks themselves can literally be too small to see unless you know the precise area of your anatomy to examine.

Lyme Disease, Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever, and Alpha-gal Syndrome (which causes a severe allergic reaction to red meat, transmitted by the Lone Star Tick, easily recognizable by the single white spot on its back) are among the most serious tick-borne diseases, and I have numerous friends who have suffered one or more of these. Fortunately, this season, I have detected and destroyed every tick that has discovered me — at least, to my knowledge! — before it has managed to dig in for the long haul. With so many more people now out on trails and in the woods, the pandemic is but one of the risks out there, and socially distancing one’s self from ticks tends to be difficult.

While most ticks laugh at DEET, I have found that spraying my entire body before getting dressed and then spraying down my clothes has dissuaded the vermin from catching a ride and using me as a restaurant car. If you value your health, these little nasties are not to be trifled with. When you're in their environment, take the necessary precautions. (And when you're in my environment, wear a fucking mask.)

Grazie mille.