Swattin’ Flies with Grandpa

Swattin’ Flies with Grandpa 

    In his later years, my grandpa’s one mission in life, I believe, was to kill every fly on the face of the Earth.

   James Townsend spent most of his summer evenings sitting in a vinyl chair out on his front porch, and I often sat nearby in the “visitor” chair.

   He would come out of the house, reach up into the porch rafters, pull down an old flyswatter, and place it near his chair.  With his feet up, he sat telling stories and drinking tea.

   He’d turn his head toward me while he talked, but his eyes were always darting around the porch as he searched for man’s worst enemy. The fly. 

   When a fly landed within reach, Grandpa would snatch the swatter from its perch faster than John Wayne had ever drawn a gun in the westerns we used to watch together on Saturday afternoons.

   Wham! There was one less fly to bother people sitting on his porch.  Thousands of flies fell each summer as Grandpa rained deadly blows on them.

   As I got older, I‘d stand on the vinyl chair, reach up into the rafters and pull down my own flyswatter.  I could never swat every fly within reach, no matter how hard I tried.

   We’d sit there together, swatting flies and talking about what life was like when Grandpa was my age.

   One day, Grandpa asked me if I would like to see a trick.  When a fly landed on his leg, he began to blow gently on it.  I could see the fly’s wings spread as it hunkered down against the wind.

   Grandpa reached into his pocket and pulled out a well-worn Barlow pocket knife, opened the smaller of the two blades, and quickly jabbed it towards the fly.  Got it!

   I asked him to teach me the trick, but he refused.  When I asked why he wouldn’t do it again, he explained.

   “When I was your age, my father showed me the same trick, and I asked him to do it one more time,” he said.

   “He waited until a big horsefly landed on his leg.  He was so excited about the size of the fly that he didn’t pay attention to what he was doing,” Grandpa chuckled.

   “Dad cut the fly in half, but drove the entire length of the blade into his thigh,” Grandpa continued.  “I won’t repeat that trick, because I’ve always been afraid of making his mistake.”

   A few years later, my grandpa’s flyswatter fell silent, and I’m sure flies everywhere celebrated.

   Now I often find myself on the front porch and telling stories to my daughter, but I’ve never attempted the knife trick.