Catching Flies In . . . (ahem, uh, am I allowed to say this?)

I went outside to take down the clothes drying on the line and came upon two common houseflies, caught, ahem . . . in flagrante, on my husband’s T-shirt.

Is it weird that I didn’t want to interrupt them? I felt it would be rude to shoo them away. I mean, I was witnessing the miracle of a species’ highest calling in existence. Those two had waited their whole lives for this moment. I wasn’t going to spoil it for them.

I couldn’t tell if they were enjoying themselves. Or was it merely a business transaction? Did he buy her dinner first? Did they discuss dreams and aspirations? Did he tenderly, slowly brush the antenna back from her eyes so he could gaze into her soul? Did he compare her wings to those of an angel’s? Or did she jump right to, “I want to have lots and lots of kids?” If so, apparently that line works for male flies. He’s thinking, “Life-long commitment? Huh. Eh, I can handle that.”

Carpe diem, my brother.

What makes for a mate-worthy mate in the world of flies? Are flies capable of love to some degree? Lust? Are they driven by libidinous desires? Or is it all simply to create a next generation, to ensure the survival of the species?

I have always wondered: what is the lowest form of animal that has fun?

So, this is what goes through my head, as I stumble upon the scene. I feel torn between salacious voyeurism and piously-virginal modesty. I find a middle ground to my liking: I check in on them a few times, but with—of COURSE—the utmost respect for this heaven-sanctioned act of creation. I wish them well and hope that they had a good time. {wink}

(I was surprised at how long it took. Maybe they cuddled after.)

I got to thinking about other times when I have spotted, photographed and—if at all possible—pointed out to my children various other living things in “The Act.” It never fails to bring delight to all. We adults may giggle—we are, after all, dutiful subjects to the previous generations’ worldview.

And, yet, through the blushing cheeks, we remain fascinated. Fascinated at Life. Fascinated at creation. If you’ve seen a baby being born, and you stop to really think about the miracle of life, it’s mind-blowing.

Nature is inspiring. Even the courtship rituals of the humble Musca domestica.

Go get ‘em, Tiger!

Dear Summer Solstice Gods,

I regret to inform you that our Summer Solstice “celebration” was not the primal, spirit-Nature communion you have come to expect. I had big plans, you know. We were going to work ourselves up to a frenzied trance, a kind of wild abandon, dancing in our skivvies around a bonfire all night long.

We did not do that.

Do marshmallows count as burnt sacrificial offerings? . . . but they were jumbo-sized.

My idea for the children dancing with flaming torches got vetoed by my wussier better half. We settled for sparklers. {One day, though. I promise.}

Oh, but my husband did lead the pack in a ritualistic howling so robust that it no doubt hastened the arrival of the moon and her starry attendants.

Other than that we were a pitifully tame bunch. The best demonstration of raw animal instinct was when the neighbor’s cat infiltrated the house, sprung the mouse (intended for our pet snake) from its box, and chased it through our living room, eventually showing himself out the back door, a cigarette-like tail dangling from his lip.

And, then, the sky darkened, for the shortest night of the year. We looked heavenward to symbolically connect ourselves through time and space to our stalwart Northern ancestors whose lives were intertwined with the fate of the constellations that bedecked the cosmos. We found the Big Dipper and uh . . . yep, that’s pretty much it. We hang our heads, shamed by our astronomical failure. {Next year we’ll know more. Promise.}

The kids watched a movie outside in the tent, I read to them some more from our summer read-aloud, Tales from a Thousand and One Nights, (yes, there is a *wee* bit of editing), and the night ended for them when they crashed on the couch at around 1:00.

I had intended to stay up all night to honor my obstinate Viking blood. But, turns out, I’m not that stupidbborn.

I am ashamed, Solstice gods. It was not the night of intoxicated debauchery that I had envisioned . . .

And yet . . .

This morning I took note. Everything from last night is a blur when seen from hazy, bloodshot eyes in the early hours (curse that wretched baby’s 5:51 wake-up time—are you kidding me?!). My hair, infused with the scent of the smoky fire-demons, I think, might have marshmallow in it. One kid fell off the couch and spent the rest of the night on the living room floor. The other, I found asleep behind the couch cushions, wearing just her underwear and sucking her thumb.

And as for the baby—her morning diaper tells me she had too much to drink last night.

I don’t know, maybe it was, after all, the wild night I had hoped it would be.