Hubris

No sooner did I wax poetic about the relative safety of rural life, when it all came back to bite me. Actually, sting me.

I was down at the pond yesterday collecting more blackberries, and disturbed a nest of ground bees, one who took gross exception to my presence. I yelped to beat the band, and Echo came running to save me. We walked back to the house, and I played the sleepy, Benadryl-medicated, whining patient for the rest of the day.

This morning, my fingers are almost back to normal, (the bee got me on my middle finger), but the palm and back of my hand is swollen tight and itchy. At least I didn't have any gross allergic reaction to this particular bee, just the swelling of my hand.

All of me is pretty itchy. I've got bug bites from head to toe, a band of mosquitoes or mites having chewed on me two nights ago when I was sleeping in my birthday suit, on top of the covers, to regulate my over-heated internal thermostat. I've got bites on top of my bites. I've got bites in really inconvenient places. Bill has chiggers all over his ankles. We're a pair.

Today, we're going to attempt to put the canoe in the Holston River and see what there is to see.
And in the privacy of our own watercraft, we can scratch in tandem without offending onlookers.