Flies

I hate flies.  If they cross over the threshold from the great outdoors to enter into my house, they are done for.  I stop everything I’m doing and go after them with a vengeance.  I turn off all indoor lights so they head for the windows.  A fly swatter is useless.  My best defense is a Kleenex box as it’s a clean kill with massive surface area in case they move.  It works great in the corners of the windows, too, which are often stained with fly guts.  I hate to even think where those nasty little insects have landed before they try to land on food in my house, but they rarely have a chance.  I’m pretty quick on the draw.

My husband thinks I’m overly concerned, shall we say, obsessed, with the whole fly swatting business.  I just figure they have a right to life as long as they stay outside, but once they enter my domain, they’ve made a choice to die.  When I succeed in the kill, I feel a strange compulsion to talk to them with a triumphant, “It’s not your day,” comment.  This too, puzzles my husband.  Why do I feel the need to talk to the flies, he wondered.  And then the answer came.

I’ve been researching my “roots” off and on for the last fifteen years, and the day I read an account of my great-great-great-great grandfather, John A. Richman, born in 1779, I was shocked to find my obsession with flies was something that was passed down through some obscure strand in my DNA. 

John Richman was the first white settler in Douglas County, Illinois.  A doctor who later came and settled in Douglas County kept journals, and even wrote an entire essay I found on the Internet entitled, “My Recollections of John A. Richman.” He described my dear ol’ great-great-great-great grandpappy’s appearance, mannerisms, words he spoke, and peculiar behaviors.  Mystery solved:

“As was his habit, he sat upon the floor with a deerskin under him... In his hand he held a piece of chair rung, to the end of which was attached a piece of sole leather, forming a convenient paddle. With this deadly weapon he slaughtered every fly he could reach adding at each successful blow a suitable curse adjective.

“A pair of short boards, leaning together at the top and smeared with honey, stood on a shelf as a flytrap. Every few minutes he would rise from the floor and bring the trap together with a bang, supplemented with a furious, "There, damn ye!" by way of comment. In the course of his fly campaign he sat down and rose up many times; and what is singular, he did it with ease and grace, such as long practice alone can give.”

I felt so validated after reading this.  Not only did he hate flies, but he also talked to them upon their death.  It made me wonder just how many other odd things I do, that are written deep into my genetic makeup.  We are complex creatures.