Purely for amusement, of course

As a friend tells it, she and a cousin were visiting a carnival in another town and, on a whim, decided to have a palm reading done at a fortuneteller’s booth.

Once they were under way, the psychic looked puzzled. “I have to ask,” she said, hesitantly. “Are you a prostitute?”

Initial shock passing, came the reply, “No, why?”

“Because I see you surrounded by men.”

Ahh! Not so off the mark after all.

“I had to tell her I work at the pier and am surrounded by longshoremen.”

I’m filing this under Local Color.

That’s it, blame driver error

After a recent Windows upgrade, I keep finding my remote speaker disconnected from Bluetooth when I first go to use it, say for a Zoom meeting or the musical tracks I need for practicing my parts for our upcoming choral concert.

“Driver error” is Microsoft’s excuse. Like somebody’s going to get a traffic ticket?

Still, it’s annoying, like being pulled over by flashing lights in your rearview mirror. Yes, officer?

Well, I keep hoping they fix it. Isn’t that what those upgrades are for?

Yeah, I can just imagine being told, “Tell it to the judge.”

Whoever that is.

Just back from a hike

No ticks, thank God!

The black flies, meanwhile, were in swarms.

~*~

Supposedly the island’s infamous red ants keep the tick population at bay here in Eastport. Fire ants?

Another pestilence.

Still, I’ve learned to inspect carefully for ticks after any outing inland. Somehow, I hadn’t had to face them prior to New England.

Black flies, though, are particularly nasty. They’re tiny and attack first individually around the mouth and nose and then as swarms or small clouds that leave nasty bites from mid-April through mid-July, especially when there’s no wind or you’re away from the sea.

Yes, that sea seems to keep them away from Eastport.

The skeeters will come later.

You don’t see any of this in the L.L. Bean catalog version of Maine.

In the “Black Fly Song” by Wade Hemsworth, made famous by folksinger Bill Staines, the action is placed in northern Ontario, though it’s of little comfort to know the pests range so far across the northern forests.

The lyrics nail the misery so well, For I’m all but goin’ crazy.

The reason, of course:

It was black fly, black fly everywhere
A-crawlin’ in your whiskers, a-crawlin’ in your hair
A-swimmin’ in the soup, and a’swimmin in the tea

As the chorus goes:

And the black flies, the little black flies
Always the black fly, no matter where you go
I’ll die with the black fly a-picking my bones
~*~

It’s true, no joke.

Staines, by the way, lived one town over from Dover, where I was. Small world.

And I should note the bumper sticker: Black Flies, Defenders of the Wilderness.