Bêtes Noires

I was sitting at the kitchen table contemplating my scrambled eggs the other day when I noticed a tiny black bead on my forearm. “What is that?” I asked my beloved spouse. “Looks like a deer tick engorged with blood.” Hmmm. Lovely. Now looking out for the dreaded Lyme disease bullseye thing. I happen to be on antibiotics for a sinus infection so hopefully cephalexin will also take care of any germs the little bugger may have passed on. Apparently, our little corner of the Blue Ridge has an incidence of Lyme disease about 20 times the state average. There are a hell of a lot of deer around here.

The French word for tick, which by coincidence I learned the other night is tique ( in the manner of musique, classique etc.). The author of the novel I mentioned in my last post describes people attaching themselves to cultural crutches like a tique to a fat warm dog. It’s kind of an elegant word for such a nasty little creature. Their existence seems totally unjustified to me, but I suppose they’re food for the birds. Wouldn’t mind getting a few guinea fowl in here to clear them out if I can overcome my distaste for poultry.

Unfortunately, they like to hang out in tall grass and we’re not so big on mowing around here. Our trio of riding mowers is still down. But Christian did get out (on father’s day God bless him) and cut the grass immediately surrounding our house with the (now operational) push mower. Just beyond, there remains a vast expanse of knee high blades way beyond the capability of a any kind of lawnmower. This stuff is going to require a real tractor and bushhog, which we’ll have to borrow. There is a nice little close-cropped patch beyond the garden on which the ever lovin’ has set up a horseshoe court. We’re not really horseshoe pitchers around here but somebody passed on an old set, so what the heck. We can have a glass or rosé and pretend we’re playing pétanques at the Place des Lices in Saint Tropez.