Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Beware Attack Ants

I try not to wear maxi skirts; they tend to make me look like I belong to a cult of hippy dwarfs. No disrespect to hippies or Snow White’s buds or cults. Long skirts also tend to wrap around my ankles, hooking my heels in an aggressive and hostile manner.

Long skirts are just this side of death traps, in my opinion.

So if you see me wandering about in a long, heel-hooking skirt, it’s because I’m hiding something.

Two weeks ago, last Sunday I had to wear a maxi skirt to church. I was hiding fire ant pus bites that covered my leg flesh from my ankles to my knees.

Ant pus bites that I received while standing in a ditch next to our street, Kissimmee Park Road. I was standing in the ditch putting a halter on Rosie the Pony that was having a high old time snacking on the bucket of feed I use to trap equine jail breakers.

A bucket of feed that I had set in an enormous fire ant hill, because I was distracted by the wailing of the fire engine that went roaring down our country lane at the exact time of Rosie the Pony’s escape attempt.

A fire ant hill that poured forth enough fire breathing ants to fill the bucket and leap onto Rosie the Pony’s nose and cause her to snort fire ant laden nostril snot onto my person, while their angry ant co-drones raced up my shins to gnaw on my age spots.

Age spots that were soon covered with fire ant pus bites, while Sarah, my daughter-in-law, directed traffic: the fire engine, assorted pickup trucks, the neighbor—come to help, possibly a goat pulling a cart.

Sarah, my daughter-in-law, who hearing my howling yelps for assistance grabbed the bucket filled with fire ants and handed it to Emma, the granddaughter, who thought that Rosie the Pony had been trotting over to say, “Hi, Emma,” when Emma was holding the front gate open for the family van.

Rosie the Pony who had not been trotting over to say, “Hi, Emma,” but to say, more along the lines of,  “Wow, you people are morons,” as she bolted for the sweet, sweet grass of the ditch.

Sweet, sweet grass that hid a gigantic fire ant hill filled to the brim with fire ant pus makers, whose attack required me to have to wear a frumpy skirt to church.

Or as Emma wailed, “Hey, Mom, this bucket is full of fire ants.”

Country Living Lessons Learned:

**Ponies trotting toward an open gate may have ulterior motives.
**The grass is always greener in the ditch.
**Maxi skirts make good cloaking devices in a pinch.

Linda (Beware Attack Ants) Zern



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