Our Labor Day Savannah trip began with check-in at the Hamilton Turner Inn. With its impressive architecture, sweeping staircases, and hardwood furniture, this was the type of establishment to send Mom into raptures. While I handled details such as keys and Visa cards, she darted about the parlors examining upholstered chairs and knocking on wooden surfaces to test the integrity of the wood grains. And although I admire Oriental carpeting and Victorian era buffets as much as the next gal, I was more interested in the mushrooms on the three-tiered plate and the lemon beverages beside them. We all have our hobbies.
Our room was equally enchanting. Mom found an antique end table, and I discovered a box of complimentary chocolates, the perfect chaser for soiree mushrooms. I stepped into a bathroom with a claw foot tub, and life hit the mark of perfection. I can’t understand why they stopped making claw foot tubs. Life would regain a significant degree of peace if we would reinstate their production. So we went out for a fabulous meal and returned for an early evening in our perfect, little room. There’s one certainty about perfection: it has no other goals to attain, so it immediately begins to atrophy.
I first heard him around midnight. So soft at first that my mind told me that I must be imagining things, but then the noise grew louder. He approached, and I knew that an interloper had invaded my space and I was his next mark. That telltale hum by my ear revealed the horrifying truth: there was a skeeter in the room.
I followed my normal protocol and began flailing wildly in the air in hopes of convincing him that even if he could stick a landing, he would obviously be feasting on psychotic tissue; but as with all previous attempts of this technique, it failed utterly. Any momentary lapse in humming was always rekindled as soon as my limbs ceased movement, so I tried my backup plan of burrowing deeply into the covers and emerging at intervals to swat viciously at my own flesh. About the time I resigned myself to looking like a smallpox victim the next day, my stalker left; and just as I was dozing off, I heard Mom muttering, “Son of a gun!” and “You little devil!” from across the room. If the Red Cross could get half as much blood in one day, we’d be well out of the blood drought in Georgia.
The next day we rolled out of bed fatigued, but vengeance was mine when I caught our third party in the bathroom. Given the CSI pattern he made against the wall, I’m pretty sure I’m still suffering from a nasty case of anemia. Mom and I tried to put the blight on our lovely vacation behind us, but when we entered the Savannah Bee Company, one of my favorite haunts for honey, Mom pointed to a pith helmet against the wall.
“When you check out, go ahead and have them ring up one of those. Just in case our skeeter had any friends.”
And while I laughed, I couldn’t help but eye that net and wonder if she was on to something.
© 2013 – Traci Carver