Fred the Fly

In our family, we tend to give a personal name to anything in our lives that moves, animate or not. For instance, daughter Mary Beth’s car is Francesca.

Grandchildren Brigid and Joe picked this up but in reverse. When they were younger, Joe wanted to name his children LightSwitch and Lamp. Brigid wanted to name hers FreshCorn and Food. You can sort of see the themes of their younger years.

When Joe trapped a spider in a jar, he named it Fluffy. When it went to its reward and he trapped another, it became Fluffy 2.0.

Thus I have named the fly that bedevils me when I sit on our deck. “Fred the Fly.”

I really should not be so upset with Fred. He’s the only fly we have. That’s one of the great things about our part of the UP. Most north woods places have black flies and deer flies and mosquitoes the size of birds. Not Iron Mountain. We have a bat cave. Thousands of bats. They come out every evening at sundown and eat insects, especially mosquitoes. They are appointed by the bat bishop to various circuits. Our bat is named Walter, for Walter Batty, an old preaching colleague.

So what’s one fly who has managed to survive the summer and all those bats?

Well, deck-sitting hours are getting scarce now. We had a low of 35 last night. It’s noon now and the thermometer says it’s still too cold to apply the paint the deck needs. When I do get a chance to sit on the deck, I don’t want to be bedeviled by Fred.

It’s often “the ants around the ankles,” [Mark Twain’s phrase, I believe] that distract us most, that keep us from enjoying the moment. That’s especially true with old people. It becomes our only subject of thought and conversation. We sit and complain about the ants around the ankles.

I’m not exactly sure what to do about the ants around the ankles. They are real, and they are really annoying. I DO know, though, that I’m not going to let Fred keep me from enjoying my last days on the deck.