Tis the season.

Yup, September is the month when the stinging insects are mad at the world. And who can blame them? Killing cold is right around the corner and this is the time of year when bears and skunks are raiding their hives, eating larvae like popcorn.

On Saturday we walked past FOUR recently dug out ground hives. Two were abandoned and two still had stragglers milling about.

This is something I pay a great deal of attention to after having experienced a serious allergic reaction 15 years ago. A 911, emergency room reaction. I spent seven years getting shots and still carry an epi pen. Which I am NOT keen on using.

So it was just plain foolishness on my part when I saw a bear thumping around not far off the trail last week. I KNEW to look for a disturbed hive. But I didn’t. And I got stung FOUR times.

Turns out I can run and pry a Benadryl capsule out of it’s bubble pack at the same time. I really had NO plans to ever test how effective my allergy shots had been. I especially didn’t want to test it while alone in the woods with a little less than a mile to go back to the car.

And that’s the thing I want to tell you. I wasn’t alone. (And I don’t mean Thistle, who was sticking to me like glue–she doesn’t like bees either.) Even though I was frustrated that I’d been stung and I was concerned that I might have some sort of reaction, I wasn’t in a panic or overwhelmed with fear.

And I finally understood that whole, “pray without ceasing” business.

This is why I have faith. It’s not that God keeps me from getting into sticky situations, it’s that I can feel his presence when I dig myself a fresh hole and fall into it.

Being reminded that he’s with me no matter what almost makes getting stung four times worth it.

Almost.

Mountain people are good in a crisis. Maybe it has something to do with how many grew up hardscrabble. Or if they didn’t, their parents and grandparents did.

It’s not so much about being prepared in case of an emergency, it’s knowing if there isn’t an emergency now, there will be soon enough.

These are the people who drive around in trucks with a come-along, jumper cables, and a chainsaw in the bed. There are probably some empty beer cans, too. And maybe a dog.

These are the people you want living next door when a hurricane turned tropical storm tears up your neighborhood.

We woke Tuesday morning to no power and a yard that looked like, well, like a hurricane had hit it. The rain was less than expected and the wind more. Proving my point that the only thing you can trust about the forecast is that it’s wrong.

The reason for the power being out was immediately evident. It was the same reason none of the folks further up our dead end road would make it in to work that morning. Several large trees right in the edge of the power line right-of-way had tipped over taking down the power lines and blocking the two-lane road.

But not to worry. In short order, every volunteer fireman in the vicinity was out with chainsaws taking care of the scariest downed tree on our road. And by the time they were done, locals on up the road had cleared everything between there and the end.

Which means Thistle and I were able to go for our usual hike in the national forest late that afternoon. Or not so much hike as scramble and dodge. There are a LOT of trees down in our corner of NC. But thankfully, we’re in the mountains where a crisis brings out the best in folks.

Anyone need some firewood?

Can you believe tomorrow is September?

My grandmother was right when she told me time picks up speed as you age. She was right about a lot of stuff.

When I was a kid, Labor Day weekend meant it was time for the annual wiener roast at Toad and Berle’s. Yes, his name was Toad and no one thought it the least bit odd. Toad and Berle lived in what had been the community schoolhouse when my dad was a kid.

The wiener roasting happened over an open fire using sticks with sharpened ends. (I can only imagine what those men and their pocketknives would have thought of manufactured, metal hot dog sticks with wooden handles.) The women would bring every side dish you could think of and some you couldn’t. And oh the desserts! My goodness the desserts. Plus marshmallows for toasting on the hot dog sticks (a taste sensation, indeed!).

The creek was nearby and we were meant to stay out of it but never did. There was also a cliff over on Uncle Willis’ land (not nearly as high as I remembered). We were meant to stay away from there, too. Of course we didn’t.

After eating, folks would sit around smoking cigarettes, talking, telling stories (otherwise known as lies), and playing music. We kids would set fire to the hot dog sticks and write our names with burning embers against the night sky. Until someone made us stop. And then we’d do it anyway and sometimes we’d get in trouble and sometimes we wouldn’t. We’d go to bed late that night, smelling of smoke and hot dogs, hearts and bellies full.

I guess people still have picnics on Labor Day weekend. I guess they might even have hotdogs. But I’ll just bet they don’t cook them on a sharpened stick over an open fire outside an old schoolhouse while dusk settles like a soft blanket and the voices of just about everyone who’s ever cared about them hums in the background.

This Labor Day I might have to build a fire out back and roast me a hotdog. But I have a feeling it won’t taste the same. Not even a little bit.