Green Season has arrived. Which is a poetic way of saying the celestial rain faucets have been turned on for the next few months. A great opportunity to check for roof leaks and drainage blockages around the house, among other things. For me, I bring out my winter wardrobe, which consists of beach dresses made of heavier gauge fabrics and the occasional long pants. But not too heavy a gauge, as I rediscovered the other night while sitting in an open-air restaurant. Wearing cropped summer sweats, I promptly started to “glisten” uncomfortably. We’ve been under some sort of climactic “dome” phenomenon here the last several months that has been the alleged culprit for unseasonably high temps. Combine that with heavy rain and humidity…whew…
The abundant rains awaken many of the jungle’s 100,000 to 300,000 bugs (scientists are still trying to get an accurate headcount.) All of which are the bane of my existence in one form or another. Long ago I got over my squeamish aversion to most (but not all) creepy crawlers. My problem is that I am a particularly savory bit of flesh for most of the biting varieties.
Par exemplo, after several hours working in my open-air studio, I come away with bites on my toes, ankles, calves, fingers, and arms. Most of the bites are from tiny, almost microscopic bugs that pack a mean and painfully itchy bite. And then there is the harmless variety, like these flying ant-like insects that appear every night for about a week, congregating around any lights – inside or out – only to die within 24 hours. We’re almost at the end of that particular cycle of life. At that restaurant the other night, several flying ants dive-bombed our food, dying a fast (but satiated?) death. As we were picking bugs out of our enchiladas, a frightened smallish rat ran inside for cover from the torrential downpour. My pleas not to kill the poor thing went unheard, drowned out by the deafening drone of rain pounding on the metal roof.
So, as I sit on my covered patio checking my coffee cup for bugs before sipping, I can’t help but reflect on the presidential campaign in full swing in my native country. No words. None. I’d marched and protested in the 70’s for abortion rights and against the Vietnam War, and I cannot, for the life of me, fathom how we got from there to here. It all seems to boil down to intentional and orchestrated “mis” and “dis” information campaigns. Foreign and domestic, with a heavy emphasis on domestic. How do you combat that, given the social media phenomenon that whole-heartedly rejects the now-defunct 1949 Fairness Doctrine? How do you force people to do their due diligence to read information from multiple sources, including history books, before espousing mindless, cultish mantras? I’m all for dialogue and discourse, which are inherent elements of our democratic society. Or used to be. Now it’s dominated by lies, vengeance, and retribution. I was raised in a “good” Reagan Republican home that espoused the virtues of honesty and integrity. I rejected their political policies but retained their code of basic human decency and respect for others. Nowadays, if someone disagrees with an adversary, they inflict itchy bites that only get worse the more they’re scratched. If some of the extreme factions get their way, they promise to squash their adversaries like that poor little rat in the restaurant. It’s almost too dystopian to believe could be happening. But all you have to do is pick up a history book and READ.
Judy Richter 