Play misty for me
We're sitting on the patio at my grandparents' Louisiana house in the early evening. Charlie is tooling around industriously, requesting ice cubes and chasing them under the wicker sofa. ("Not in the mouth, Charlie, for the love of God: dirty. And lizardy.")
The mosquitoes have come out — as if they ever went in — and my grandfather has decided to fumigate the area with a blast of Deep Woods Off. Instead of applying it to his clothes and skin as per the instructions, he's waving the can around, spraying the chemicals indiscriminately into the air, like a germophobic housewife misting her home with Lysol.
"Daddy," says my aunt, shocked, "that's not good for people with compromised respiratory systems."
"Well," my grandfather drawls, "it's not real good for mosquitoes, either."
Off for the next ten days at our annual family camp in the woods. Thank you so much for your comments and e-mail on my last post. I'm thinking about them every day, and if I don't expire in a cloud of DEET before my return, I'll follow up when I'm back.