Cold Weather Flies

The way I see it, there are two distinct fly seasons.  The long, drawn out, hot and often muggy summer fly season where there are zillions of flies that seem to spawn from nowhere and the short but disgusting cold-weather fly season.

Let it  be known that my favorite fly season – if I had to choose between gross and grosser – is the summer fly season.  The sheer fact that there are at least 7 million flies on any given sauna-like afternoon that fill up fly tape within 2 minutes, land on the goats causing them to stomp and nearly step into the milk pail during milking, and irritate the living daylights out of any human being still pales in comparison to the cold-weather fly season.

It is my least favorite of the two fly seasons.  And, it has been happening on a daily basis in by kitchen for the past two weeks.

Let me paint a few pictures for you…in case you’ve never experienced a cold weather fly:

You’re standing at the kitchen sink, gazing out the window as you wash a few dishes.  You are marveling at the deep blue color of the sky and watching the cloud shaped like a lizard change into a guitar then into a wedding cake when a large, lethargic black blob enters your peripheral vision and slams into your cheek.  It maintains contact with your flesh for longer than you care to think about, and the fact that it even collided with your unmoving face is absurd.  Don’t flies have upwards of 1000 eyes?  It should have seen you as an obstruction from at least the dining room table.  From the point of contact, it ricochets off and begins a slow descent to the ground, its wings not able to recover quickly enough to get it to safety.  If you are quick, you can get the dish soap off your hands, grab a dish towel and swat it with ease.  But, if you delay, or if it regains consciousness mid-flight, it zig-zags and lands on the glass spice jars and poses for a picture.  It is temporarily saved because you can’t kill it without risking your Italian seasoning being peppered with shards of glass.


The worst though, is when you are walking toward the door, in a hurry to get to a meeting.  Your inertia is forward moving and at the time you happen to take your usual breath in through your nose, a cold weather fly comes in from left field.  It is so slow and weak that it can’t fight the pull of the vacuum it suddenly feels drawing it directly toward your right nostril.  A millisecond before you inhale the poop eating insect deep into your nasal cavity, your brain processes the reality of the situation and its impending disaster.  You stop your breath and wave frantically at the base of your nose.  That one got away, but at least you didn’t have to go to the ear nose and throat doctor to have it removed from the depths of your sinuses.

And finally, the one that happened today.  I went to the bathroom sink to wash my hands and lo and behold, encountered a gigantic fly sitting by the drain.  Really.  It was sitting there, still, so still that I could see that its eyes were a rust colored red and its nose greenish.  I had not ever realized that flies have noses.  That fly didn’t even flinch when I came at it with a wad of toilet paper.  No movement whatsoever.  It had already crossed over to the other side.  To fly heaven.  Or, wherever flies go upon death.  And it was still standing up.  It hadn’t even taken the time to fully die and roll over the way you find dead flies on the window sill.

I hope you can now thoroughly understand why I strongly prefer summer fly season.  It is always important to look at the glass half full, right?

Until next time,

–  The Goat Cheese Lady

P.S.  This is the unedited version of the post that ran in the IndyBlog on Saturday, October 11, 2014.  You can read it here.



About The Goat Cheese Lady

I am Lindsey. At first I was a city girl. Growing up, the closest thing I had to farm animals were a cat and a cockatiel. In 2009, Herbert (my husband) and I bought our first milk goat and I instantly became an urban farmgirl, attempting to balance city and farm life..before I knew “urban homesteading” was a thing. That’s when we began The Goat Cheese Lady Farm, hence The Goat Cheese Lady blog you’re visiting now. After moving to the country in 2014, I embarked on life as a rural farmgirl. We continued teaching farm and cheesemaking classes, raising more goats and began construction on our cheese creamery. But life had other plans and in 2017, we decided that, due to financial and health issues, we had to close the farm for business. No more classes, no more creamery, a lot less milking. We went back to off farm jobs, I as an Occupational Therapist, Herbert in construction with his business, D&A Home Remodeling. At that point, I made a silent promise to myself that I would corral my entrepreneurial mind and focus on a job for a year. Well, it has been a year and I am back. Not to classes, cheese, soap or lotion, but back to writing. I love it. I’m not sure where it will lead me, but that’s where I’m starting. I’ll continue to write as The Goat Cheese Lady for now, and whatever the future holds, I’ll let you know. Our two boys are 14 and 11 and continue to be louder than my sister and I ever were. We have two dogs, Montaña and Flash, a cat, Jumpy, a flock of chickens and three goats. Yes, we still have Lucy, the goat who helped us start it all and was milked by over 1,000 people. She’s retired but still the boss. Chocolate provides enough milk for our family with some to spare for the dogs. Soccer friends, school friends, coyotes and mice are frequent visitors. There are way too many flies and every so often we see an owl. I’m glad you’re here. Sometimes you’ll laugh out loud, other times you’ll be inspired to appreciate the small things. My hope is that, over your morning cup of coffee or your afternoon work break, you’ll enjoy the antics and inspiration that are my daily life. Lindsey
This entry was posted in Farm Life, funny stories and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

1 Response to Cold Weather Flies

  1. Patty Cameron says:

    Your writing is still excellent and fun!

    Sent from my iPhone Patty Cameron


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