A mom pulled a wagon through the seaside town. At each end of the wagon sat a blond-haired boy. Each boy waved a flyswatter.
What was the story behind the fly swatters? I’ll take my kids on vacation and, instead of a souvenir t-shirt, I’ll buy them flyswatters.
The boys waved the bug killers like flags. Did the stores run out of the American variety? Were fly swatters the only substitute?
I grew up with siblings. We had battles. My mom discouraged anything but the outward illusion of perfection. Swords, fists, and even harsh words were frowned upon in settling disputes. If our mother allowed us kids to swat* the shit out of each other occasionally, my siblings and I might have better adult relationships. Were a few red welts and stings that mother’s tradeoff to blood, bruises, and repressed feelings?
Or were the flyswatters as simple as, “We have flies. Hey, buy the kids flyswatters. It’ll keep them occupied and give us a moment of peace while they kill bugs.”
The boys laughed as they waved their swatters. Kids/flyswatters, okay, cool.
* I don’t condone physical violence, meant metaphorically.