I hate changing my winter clothes for summer ones. The entire process is exhausting: washing,
folding, packing and moving them back to the attic. My winter items have been
stacked on top of a bench at the foot of my bed, in some baskets on the floor
beneath it, as well as in a large laundry basket and on two side chairs.
It’s the end of June, and it’s overdue for my lightweight
shorts, shirts and capris.
When I change my clothes out, I mentally prepare for 8 or
more hours of tedium. An old movie I’ve
seen a dozen times is the perfect backdrop to accomplish the task. The dialogue will keep me company and
memorable scenes break up the monotony.
First, the cats go out.
Otherwise, they rediscover the joys of empty baskets, and drawers left
open. They watch for soft sweaters to lie
in and dangling strings on pants that will be pulled across the floor in a
familiar game.
The baskets show imprints of fat cat bodies and lots of left-behind
hair; it’s everywhere and nothing is spared.
Collect the hair and a new sweater would be produced.
Sorting through a basket, I find an old, soft, yellow cotton
nightgown that I can’t seem to throw out.
I picked it up and a huge dark roach appears underneath, attached. I threw the gown on the floor and screamed like
no other scream could be screamed, one that is immediately recognized by Scott
as “my roach scream”. He makes a fast dash to the bedroom to encounter the
monster.
I must stop here to explain that there are varying levels of
happiness, excitement and terror that trigger physiological reactions;
hysterical laughter, peeing in one’s pants and blood-curdling screams are just
a few. I suppose I have and still do
exhibit all the fore mentioned reactions; if I held these in, I would explode,
just as badly as if holding in a violent sneeze.
The roach scream generally comes when I’m in the kitchen
preparing dinner or cleaning up, or anywhere near dog or cat food. Since the cats eat in my en suite, my bedroom
or bathroom is another surprise location.
Since I was both a cheerleader and a singer in earlier
years, I can project my voice to decibels equivalent to mach 1. When I scream, I become paralyzed. Sadly, the roach isn't adversely affected. Scott is prompted to find the vacuum cleaner
or a sturdy shoe to annihilate the beast, a job well suited for a retired
Marine Colonel.
You may ask why a roach would instill such fear into a
science educator whose passion in college was entomology. I would have to say that it stems back to my
childhood with a non-air-conditioned home, where the southern heat and humidity
would allow the world’s largest vermin to enter. They would make their way to the tops of the
curtain rods and then fly across the room.
In actuality, they became kamikaze, dive-bombers, ultimately hitting
their target, my head or face or other bodily parts with such precision that I
knew the entire species made me a target.
That deep psychological defect has tortured me for a lifetime.
All roaches, underneath that waxy calcareous exoskeleton, have
a pair of wings, perfect for dive bombing.
Give me snakes, wild animals, or even an alligator to face before the
villainous roach. Not only do they fly, but
are also nasty creatures, according to the Raid advertisements, carrying up to
32 diseases, so I have reason to hate these
vile creatures.
Getting back to the dilemma at hand, Scott ran into the room
and all I could do was point to the object.
He carefully picked up the nightgown by a corner and eased his way out
the door and into the hallway, where he saw the massive object and immediately
dropped the gown. Then he began to dance
on top of it, Flamenco style. Convinced
that the culprit was flattened, he opened the gown and began to laugh. Peeking out the door, I saw him hold up the
hideous thing, and I understood.
It was
a feather off one of the cat’s toys.
That feather blew me away.
May all your days be filled with feathers. Email me at aitken.helen@gmail.com
Ta ta.
