Old Trunks does not like flies. She has not liked flies her entire life. As a child, she rejoiced when eating at a place commonly called the greasy spoon, the ringlet fly paper that hung from the ceiling caught hundreds and hundreds of them. They all seemed to blend in with the smoke drenched knotty pine walls.
She does not like flies. The deer flies bite. The house flies get in the truck at the lake and come into the house as if invited.
Grandpa Benhard used to sit at the table and kill the flies which landed on the table. Did he wash his hands? Probably not, did his wife wash the table? Most likely she could see the little specs of fly poop through her flour dusted lenses. Grandpa said they didn’t eat much.
He grew up without window screens. How would one keep them out?
Old Trunks grew up with window screens and no air conditioning but a mother who battered a thousand in fly killing. She did not, however, get the ones that hid in the white criss cross curtains. Those she would find in the fall house cleaning when the curtains were washed.
One fly came home from the lake via another trip north and west. It pestered for greater than 350 miles that day. It came in the house.
Last night we got down the fly swat. This was the first one this year.
While ironing it pestered. I tried to steam it and press it but it was to quick. Then, it followed to the computer and with mother’s vengeance, the mighty swing was taken. The fly was stuck in the web of the swatter.
The fly is no more.
Old Trunks does not like flies!