My early childhood was spent watching my parents finish college. They were both Fine Arts majors, which meant the crowd they hung around was eclectic (most of them smoked serious amounts of ganja and had at least dabbled in psychedelics - it was the late 60's, after all), artistic, and very much not the type of people my grandparents socialized with.
My grandparents, a metalurgical engineer grandpa and a nurse grandma, were cut out of different cloth. The kind that doesn't ever dabble in psychedelics unless they're prescribed by a licensed physician, and they were very much salt of the earth.
Anyway, I spent a LOT of time with my grandparents. They helped raise me, and certain images from that era of my life will remain permanently etched in my psyche. One that was just triggered by a big black fly trying buzzing against the sunlit window in our dining room is one of Grandpa Jack's relentless decimation of flying insects. He was one focused dude, and used a flyswatter of his own construction (of course..he also built me a set of absolutely perfect blocks, complete with their own carrying case, that I passed along to younger cousins when I left home..precision construction was his thing).
Said flyswatter consisted of a square of innertube stapled to a flat stick, and it was lethal in his hands. And it made a terrible slapping sound on a hard surface...that made me jump every single time I heard it. And I was deathly afraid of it, though it was never actually used on me, despite my sassy mouth from a very early age. Just the thought of that bad boy landing on my skin made me cringe (and not just from the bug cooties idea, which would have been considerable and super icky for a little person to experience).
Watching this stupid fly try to get out of our dining room window has made me acutely aware of the fact that we don't own, nor are we likely to construct a swatter ala Grandpa Jack anytime soon.
I wonder if this fact, that we own not a single fly swatter is more a testament to living in an arid climate where flying pests are rare, and clearly garner attention when they do appear, or if we're actually pacifists on a much deeper level.
Cuz Grandpa Jack owned a shotgun, too, and we have never ever had one of those bad boys on site.
My grandparents, a metalurgical engineer grandpa and a nurse grandma, were cut out of different cloth. The kind that doesn't ever dabble in psychedelics unless they're prescribed by a licensed physician, and they were very much salt of the earth.
Anyway, I spent a LOT of time with my grandparents. They helped raise me, and certain images from that era of my life will remain permanently etched in my psyche. One that was just triggered by a big black fly trying buzzing against the sunlit window in our dining room is one of Grandpa Jack's relentless decimation of flying insects. He was one focused dude, and used a flyswatter of his own construction (of course..he also built me a set of absolutely perfect blocks, complete with their own carrying case, that I passed along to younger cousins when I left home..precision construction was his thing).
Said flyswatter consisted of a square of innertube stapled to a flat stick, and it was lethal in his hands. And it made a terrible slapping sound on a hard surface...that made me jump every single time I heard it. And I was deathly afraid of it, though it was never actually used on me, despite my sassy mouth from a very early age. Just the thought of that bad boy landing on my skin made me cringe (and not just from the bug cooties idea, which would have been considerable and super icky for a little person to experience).
Watching this stupid fly try to get out of our dining room window has made me acutely aware of the fact that we don't own, nor are we likely to construct a swatter ala Grandpa Jack anytime soon.
I wonder if this fact, that we own not a single fly swatter is more a testament to living in an arid climate where flying pests are rare, and clearly garner attention when they do appear, or if we're actually pacifists on a much deeper level.
Cuz Grandpa Jack owned a shotgun, too, and we have never ever had one of those bad boys on site.
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