Of bugs, bats, and barn swallows

We spent the weekend with Joyce's brother and sister-in-law in a little known hamlet in western Pennsylvania. Shinglehouse, about 22 miles from a larger little known town called Coudesport, is the home of Joyce's father and stepmother. The highlight of the weekend for Joyce, Verne and Cathy was spotting a blackbear feeding itself from a corn crib left for it by hunters. In a previous trip Cathy had encountered and photographed close-up a twelve point bull elk. Not being an animal lover, and lacking the visual acuity to be a bear spotter in the woods, I was not terribly impressed but feigned mild interest. More exciting to me was the cookout we engaged in that evening on the many acred spread where our bed and breakfast was located. Verne had managed to start a fire despite rain-sogged wood from a storm that afternoon. The wood burner, a metalic cage-like contraption, was in a shelter near the entrance to the property. I was a little wary about the lightning strikes I saw to the west but the attraction of the cheese, nuts, marschmallows and wine prevailed. Making our way down the now darkened road we found the shelter and the light switch. Once the light was on and with Verne heroically chopping wood for the fire, we were attacked by an army of moths, and various other unnamed flying creatures. Before I could complain, the cavalry came to the rescue in the form of several bats and two barn swallows. With alacrity and great skill they made short work of the bugs, grabbing them in mid-flight until in a few minutes we were bug free. Not to be outdone I made short work of the Camenbert, cashews and Savignon blanc. Before we could break out the marshmallows for roasting, a lightning bolt, followed immediately by a monster thunder clap announced the arrival of the storm directly over us. The rains began--not gentle, warm, summer rain but monsoon-like driving torrents. Cathy, traumatized early in life by a lightning bolt striking close by her, immediately made for the car. Verne and Joyce, wanted to stay and watch the storm. I, more prudent than the others, insisted we return to the farm house. We had two unbrellas for the three of us.

As Joyce and I found our way down the now treacherous gravel path, I encouraged her to walk a little faster before the next lightning strike. "What are you complaining about?" she screamed. "I'm carrying the metal umbrella." Arriving at the covered bridge leading to the farrm house she asked me to release my tight grip of her arm. I was holding the wine bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other. "You're holding me" I pointed out.