About this time of year, flies invade Talbot County. By their shape and size I believe they are some species of horse fly. I first notice them in mid-September. The flies measure about three quarters of an inch to an inch, usually gray in color with big heads and enormous compound eyes. They dart at breakneck speeds, like barn swallows. The flies exhibit unnatural behavior: they chase cars.
One day as I made the turn into my driveway a squadron of these flies circled my car like buzzards over a carcass, not with the soaring grace of hawks, but with the speed and determination of hornets. Some struck the windshield with such force that they ricochet off the glass like squash balls. The flies, bloodied perhaps but not bowed, returned quickly, coming at my windshield repeatedly. Others careened onto the hood diving straight down from above, like kamikaze pilots. A few followed alongside as though escorting me, an oddly solicitous gesture from insects hardly esteemed for their hospitality. I parked and got out of the car. A couple buzzed me for a few seconds. None bit me and they soon flew off. For the flies, it was my car that was hot, not me. The sport was in the chase.
It was not as if I were driving a sexy muscle car or a pricey Jaguar. In fact the car I drive, my children tease me about, calling it Dad’s “old lady car.” My Buick La Sabre then was almost nine years old. I suppose I should be flattered by the flies’ interest in my car considering it’s a lackluster model.
Why were the flies curious about my Buick? Was it that it was old and still running? Flies live a short life and must be anxious about longevity, and looking, as we do, for the secrets of a longer life. Most flies live a month, some less. In this brief span they must mate, raise families, forage for food, pester people and animals and then die without any retirement. This is a tough life. But still, why waste time chasing cars? Perhaps with overdevelopment and horse farms disappearing, there are fewer horses around, so they now go for cars. I can only guess.
This is not my first experience with the perplexing habits of flies. A couple of fruit flies appear in my kitchen every August. I usually find them on a banana peel. They have remarkably eclectic tastes. By mid-September they’re everywhere. I find some in the shower on a bar of soap. Others cling to bath towels, still others buzzing my socks (clean ones). And for an elite few, when late in the day my wife and I enjoy a drink in the den, in they come and settle on the rim of our glasses as if they’d invited themselves over for cocktails. For some flies, one drink is too many a thousand not enough. A few fall into the glass and drown while totally stoned.
Years ago, my offices were located in a large United Methodist church in Baltimore. In the fall, flies would begin appearing in the building, particularly around windows. They were not as big as horse flies, but larger than an average housefly. They looked overfed; they were plump and furry. They appeared religiously in early fall in our church offices so we called them Methodist flies. We meant no disrespect. We did not know what to make of them or what they should properly be called.
The Methodist flies had a curious characteristic. Unlike fruit flies or horse flies, they flew around slowly, languidly, not frantically darting around as if the devil were chasing them. The Methodist flies wandered erratically here and there around the rooms. They seemed curious. The flies surveyed their surroundings like tourists, some dropping gently on the windowsills, and others just lying there buzzing quietly to them, contentedly, as if intoxicated. I dismissed the idea that they were drunk. The setting was prohibitive. Had they perhaps developed strong religious sensibilities? Had their faith led them to a more serene and reflective approach to the brevity of life and to the immanence of death? Unlike fruit flies or horse flies, the Methodist flies seemed at peace with life and their maker, not living their final hours anxiously, but in a sure and certain hope.
Once after a storm, flies appeared suddenly everywhere in my house in St. Michaels, the kind I’d seen in the Methodist church. I learned they are called cluster flies. As an Episcopalian, I concluded that cluster flies, if I’m correct in assuming they are spiritual creatures, are more ecumenical than sectarian. I could just as well have called them Episcopal flies as Methodist, or if I were a Quaker, even Friends.
A horse flies’ frenetic pursuit of cars never seems to stop. They just go from one to another. Fruit flies never stop eating. They never get enough. I suspect that cluster flies, at least as I have observed them, have mastered the art of living. They live the remainder of their days slowly and gently. I suppose for all of us, it’s not how much time we have that matters, but how we create quality within the time we already have.
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