In Which S.K. Flinches

I’ve lived in the South most of my life, with a few periods of residency overseas and in other regions in the USA, so I’m used to the scarab beetles known as June bugs. But I’ve never understood why they’re called “June bugs,” when they almost never show up until the first week of July.

Nor have I ever gotten used to how these things will fly straight at my head, with a volume 11 buzz that sounds like a plague, the kind of plague Apocalyptic John would have described as having been poured out of a phial onto the wicked nations of the earth.

All this week, every time I have stepped outside, the emerald-shelled little demons have launched themselves at me. And even though I know they’re there, and even though I know they’re going to fly at my face, I still jump and flinch and sometimes utter strange noises when they do it.

I love animals, but I do not love June bugs. I have no pact with them. I wish to do them harm. They are not helpful to my dignity. It is exceedingly difficult to be dignified when one is making noises like “York!” and “Blointh!” and “Fedurr!”

A fellow who lives on a neighboring farm enjoys shooting off fireworks on Independence Day and New Years Eve. As a side note, just exactly why he enjoys it, I fail to understand. He is almost my age. He has no children nor grandchildren. He and his wife live alone in their little farmhouse. But on these two holidays, he makes his way to his pasture and lights up enough bright and noisy things to mimic a decent-sized Vietnam-era firefight.

Perhaps it’s too much to hope, but maybe the swish-flash-boom-POW! will drive the June bugs away. It certainly makes me want to flee.

~ S.K. Orr