The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

Yesterday the temperatures hit 90 degrees here in the Driftless Area of Wisconsin, all glaciers already melted so don’t be concerned at the unseasonable weather. A student of meteorology would suspect this was a harbinger of some radical change in the global climate and yeah, the front rolled in with winds, lightning, thunder, pestilence, frogs , flash floods and biblical omens for an already saturated state. Driving through the storm last night, I crawled along leaf-covered blacktop through huge puddles with wipers that couldn’t sweep fast enough. Lighting blistered the sky, illuminating an ominous watery landscape.

Time, I think, to head home to the land of soft drizzle now that the monsoons are here and the temperatures are falling 50 degrees from yesterday’s, no time to slowly acclimate. And trust me, I didn’t bring winter parkas.

Said goodbye an hour ago to the Old Man. Left him standing forlornly in his driveway, 96 years old and you wonder if this may be the Last Adios. Course, it’s not the first time I’ve wondered that, probably not the last. Hopefully.

I remember saying goodbye to my grandfather after our annual yearly vacation in Northern Maine. He always gave me his old fedora and when I said see you soon, Grampy, he shook his hatless head, pulled my hat lower and said no, you won’t. And I didn’t.

Tough coots, my relatives. Stoic, hard-nosed, no nonsense. You live, you die, whadja think would happen? Take your best shot and accept the results. The world belongs to the living, don’t look back. Yankee Puritans, I guess. Long winter coming, though. This 96th one won’t be any easier.

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