Buggy

I noticed I go through phases: sometimes all I can say is what is happening, others all I can see is what I'm thinking. I can't seem to balance out the two.
Indian summer visited today--I don't know if that's kosher, like I should call it "Native American Summer" or something like "Faux summer" to be non-ethnic specific--but f it, that's all ridiculous. Anyway, whatever it is called, it came to visit today. It came cloudless, bright, almost 80, with peak weekend only three days away. I couldn't imagine the cove more beautiful.
But for some strange reason the whole camp was INVADED by what I can only assume is the first plague of the Weaverville apocalypse: ladybugs.
And I don't mean just ladybugs, I mean them and their manbugs, and grandmabugs and all of 'em. Thousands upon thousands of ladybugs, flying pell mell into walls, windows, faces, clothing, golf carts. Everywhere I looked the sky was just flowing and flying. I figure if ever there was a bug to stage an invasion, my vote would be on ladybugs. I was standing upstairs in one of the cabins looking out the window, watching the swarms coat the glass with their ruddy shells, wondering what caused the swarm. It then dawned on me that for once I liked not knowing; I liked the mystery and seeming randomness of their actions. For all I know it was magic and just for tonight I'll accept that answer.