It isn't that the house is overrun with hundreds of mosquitoes; there are usually just two or three that manage to find entrance at night. But it becomes unnerving; after swatting and slapping all day, I just want to take my evening bath, wash the itchiness away, and find some relief in sleep. That's what's unnerving: the sudden nocturnal bites at any hour wear me down and begin to affect my mental peace.
Tonight is no different. I lie in bed, letting the day's weariness carry me into drowsiness and beyond. My eyelids grow deliciously heavy as I approach the peace of slumber...
mmmrrrwwwrmmrrrwrrwrwrrwrrwrrwrrwwwrmmrrrwrrwwmrrrmmwrrwwmnrrwrwmmrrrw...
She's off in the next room, probably 20 feet from my bed. But I know how she navigates. Attracted by warmth, H2O, and CO2, she flies an erratic pattern, slowly closing in on the source, namely, me. I'm as helpless as a baby. The arched opening between rooms has no door. It's only a matter of time. I cannot sleep and I cannot ignore; I can only wait for the inevitable. The minutes crawl by, the high-pitched whining continues, waxing and ebbing, drawing ever nearer, until
rrrmwmrwrrwrwrrwrrwrwrrwwRRWRwrmrrwwwrrmwrrwwrrwrrrw...
she flies right past my left ear. Without rising, I reach for the bedside lamp. Adjusting to the light, my eyes finally pick her up. More time ticks by. Finally, she finds an exposed area on my left arm and lands. I wait a couple seconds for her to settle in, then, just as she prepares to stab me, slap! goes my right hand. Got her!
I'm exultant, triumphant, and relieved. How much time has passed? I glance at the clock. About an hour and a quarter. Well, that's OK, at least now maybe I can sleep. I turn the light off, roll over, find a comfortable position. It takes awhile for me to fully relax again, but eventually, my eyelids begin to grow heavy...
wrrrwmrrwrwwmrrwwrrwrrwrrwmrrrwrmwwmrrrmmrrwrmwrrwmwmmrrrwrr...
(Sigh) It's going to be another long night.
Manage to sleep a couple hours before the bright morning sun cruelly forces me to rise and greet the new day.
I try to catch up on some weeding, soon drenched with sweat. O, didn't I promise to cut Lenore's grass today? Have to run a few errands, too, so I drive into town early afternoon. When I get to her house, Lenore is already getting a meal ready. I ask if she's still using those bulk potatoes I got in March?
"No, dear; I bought these at Super One."
Lenore has to know by now how much I loathe any waste or lack of economy. I don't hide my irritation.
"Why didn't you tell me you wanted potatoes?!? I've got potatoes up the wazoo, ready to dig any time now!"
She ignores my grouchiness. "Well, these were on sale," she offers, "...and, anyway, I don't think you're growing this kind. They're Yukon Golds."
"Yukon Golds? Really?"
Much to her amusement, I start fishing in her compost for the peels, and find a handful that have healthy looking eyes. I bum a container to put them in.
Back home after mowing, lunch, and errands. I know just the spot, where peas failed to come up, just enough space for 6 or 8 Yukon Gold plants. If they sprout, it'll be a minor miracle, but you never know...
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