My mother is looking forward to springtime, when she can get out of the house and go hunting. Not for deer or duck, but in the immortal words of Spanky McFarland, “bug hunting.”
Frigid winter weather of late has mostly confined Mother to her house. I often call her after work during my homeward commute to share the events of the day. During one of our conversations last week, Mom said she had driven herself to a local hardware store, into which she purposefully carried a deceased insect of an unknown origin.
There are not many public places where it is socially acceptable for a grown woman to introduce herself to people by pulling a dead bug from her pocket, but my mother managed to find one.
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