Post Staycation Post

It turns out there is a local Dragonfly Festival here; I knew this long before I moved to Roswell. My parents took the grandkids camping and happened on the festival during their trip — many years ago now. So, dragonflies are apparently a happy part of the local environment. However, I’ve never seen hundreds of them glittering in my yard in the evening as I did last week.

This week, my staycation writing holiday was over, but on Monday I still had the wind beneath my feet, propelling me to finish my book by the end of August. I have a great urgency that I must, and as if in anticipation of this feat, I was dive-bombed by a dragonfly while out walking.

Then I got sick. I don’t get sick. Not for a long time, anyway. I caught Covid from vaccinated super-spreaders a couple of years ago, but I haven’t been sick since and rarely was sick before that. I’d finally built my immune system! I knew the answers!

I have been sick all week. I’m still sick. I took a couple days off work but returned when the fever went down. Yesterday, I was literally ushered into the library door of my office building by a golden dragonfly.

Yes, I always enter from a side door that forces me to walk through the parish library, with its statues and books. I then work my way down a hallway with motion-activated lights that flash on the images of Jesus as the Good Shepherd or of the local Bishop and priests. Near my office is a plaster relief of the Virgin Mary; she is quite pretty and peaceful but seems blind. I’ve often contemplated the artist’s choice in finishing the eyes as blanks.

The dragonfly did not follow me inside. That’s probably a good thing, as I’m already beginning to believe something weird is going on between me and these beautiful creatures. Why are they dive-bombing me, ushering me, hovering in droves outside my window? The better question is, why am I still sick? What happened to my immune system? Why is this happening when I need to finish my book by the end of August? I might even be feeling sorry for myself. Might. Self-pity is an indulgence that feels pleasant for about five minutes. Then it is rather nauseating.

We have our parish feast tomorrow. At the very least, I should be there. I was supposed to volunteer to do something important like wear a chicken costume (I really was holding out for the chicken), but unless my health improves quickly, I won’t even go to Mass, let alone the festival. Let alone entertain small children with the chicken dance. My true talents, you see, are often wasted in the everyday sober adult life that doesn’t involve randomly breaking into song and dance. And yet another opportunity to reveal my skill set has been all but lost!

I need a miracle! Instead of little mice, as I don’t have those (thankfully), I need my dragonfly friends to use their golden wings to fly my prayers to heaven. I was imagining them typing away on my computer for me, but unfortunately, they don’t have tiny little hands like the mice in The Tailor of Gloucester. Have you witnessed little mice hands? Once, I heard a mousetrap spring in the middle of the night and, when I checked on it in the morning, there was only one little mouse hand left there. The mouse had torn his hand off in order to free himself. No wonder the mice won’t help me! I’m sure that one little guy carried the tale of how he lost a limb to his children and grandchildren.

Maybe that is the kind of determination I need. Do I feel as if I’m stuck in a trap? Yes, a little. Should I rip myself free, even if it means severing a hand from my body? I always did want to be Captain Hook, a singing, dancing pirate…. Focus! Dear little golden dragonflies, please wing my petitions to heaven for me. Or inspire me to work! Something. Anything. I’m getting desperate.

I need:

This song is a little morose for my tastes, but the video is my personal crack, as it combines two of my taste aesthetics: accordions and classic trucks. I have wanted a classic square-body truck since high school but have been too practical to make it happen. Hence, I admire them from afar. I also tend to give my book characters my fantasies. Anna in Anna and the Dragon has a classic truck, and her love interest plays the accordion. Sorry, these obsessions have been with me a long time, and they aren’t going away any time soon. I wrote that book long before I ever decided I should learn to play the accordion in my freaking forties, though, and maybe I’ll have a classic truck someday too.