A Story of Survival

I hear water running. That's odd, I think. I'm in the bedroom of a little cottage on the district campground, getting ready to go run some errands. I didn't leave the sink running, did I? I step out to check the kitchen faucet, which does leak, but its firmly shut off now. I can still hear the steady stream, so I glance at the bathroom. Nope, not there, either. On my second trip to the kitchen, I discover the source. Outside the window, I'm literally inches from another cottage, and a gushing stream of water is coming over the roof. It's raining.

It's been gray all morning, but it figures that just as I'm ready to go out with a list of stores to go to, it will pour. My "emergency" sweatshirt and my umbrella are in the trunk of my car, so I make a quick stop there on the way to the driver's side. UGGGHH! My window was down an inch, and I feel the wet seat of the car become the wet seat of my jeans. As I reach for the seatbelt, I discover I'm not alone. Some bugs have taken refuge from the storm, and one is sitting on the window. It's . . . . not quite a moth, not quite a wasp. Perhaps is it some yet- undiscovered West Virginian insect. We stare at each other; I weigh rolling down the window to shoo him out with the amount of rain that will come in while I do that. Comfort wins, so I let him stay. He flies to the backseat.

On the highway, the relentless rain slows down all the drivers, and I avoid the semis that throw up a blinding spray behind their tires. I find the exit I want for the Valley Mall, and I head for Target. Just as I reach the intersection, my insect friend flies in my face. He flits from the dash to the steering wheel to my bare hand to my hair, faster than I can catch him (while driving!) I squeal and shudder him out of my hair, and I brake harder than I mean to, which sends me hydroplaning through the intersection. Once the wheels grab the ground again, I try to turn into the parking lot, and as I slide my hand up the steering wheel to turn right, my fingers grip not the wheel but something sort of hairy. The insect was hiding on the back side of the steering wheel! I let go of the wheel with that hand, careen like a stunt driver around the parking lot, and squeal again as he starts flying with a vengeance around the front of the car. I can't get parked and out of the car fast enough. I don't know if this thing has a stinger, but I don't intend to find out.

I'm not afraid of bugs per se; (indeed, blog readers may remember my fierce spider battles in France). When I was a child and was scared of any bug in the house, my mother would simply say, "He won't eat much," in a very bored tone. (Job's comforters, meet my mother. Mom, meet Job's comforters; you guys have a lot in common.) So, having been trained to ignore bugs, I claim to be very rational, EXCEPT if they fly at my face. Then I have a tendency to throw everything in my hands and squeal like a little girl.

Now, I'm getting drenched in a Target parking lot, peering in to my car windows for the insect, because I was in such a hurry to exit, I didn't see him fly out. He may be gone; he may be marshaling his strength for our next round. I go in Target, wading through puddles that are deeper than most novels. The heavens have opened above me; rain is coming down so hard, I'm getting soaked from the splash up as it lands. All the joy has gone out of shopping, so I grab the two things on my list and a pair of shoes on clearance--at this rate, I might need them.

I'm hesitant as I approach the car, but no insects are visible. I sit inside, contemplating the sheets of rain hitting my windshield. I no longer have the will to shop anywhere else in this weather, but through the fogged up windshield, in the gray horizon I spot Olive Garden. Soup, salad, and breadsticks! Suddenly, I am restored.