It is hot, sultry and sunny, filled with the roar of the cicadas and the mirth of 7-year-old Sasha, the Russian Princess.
But let me get to that in a minute. It was a relief to get away from the traffic and commotion of the Imperial City. It was jammed at the usual place, the Beltway to the Rt. 50 junction, and the car was filled with more crap.

The day was fine and sultry, a foretaste of the summer to come, and I felt buoyed by a good swim and the successful diminution of debris from the back closet and the pantry. I wanted to avoid any rash motion that would set the assorted items of dry food and artwork into violent motion, so avoiding the two cases of road rage I saw were important factors in preventing the contents of the Panzer from becoming flying missiles.

Both idiots were drivers of late-model vehicles, white, one male and young, the other old and female and both real menaces to navigation. I chose to get out of their way with less vehicular belligerence than I might normally have displayed, and the two aggressors roared off into more traffic with the Panzer unscathed.

I rolled down the window after I got off the interstate and started the downhill half of the trip. The roar of the cicadas was impressive. There is not much activity in Arlington, or at least not in the two or three places I frequent, but each grove of trees was singing as I headed south.

By the time I reached the farm it was a steady and compelling roar. I unbuttoned the house and adjusted the thermostat from winter to summer, and realized we are almost at the point where the windows stay closed and the air conditioner comes on.

I compromised between a modicum of fresh air and a limited attempt to cool Culpeper County with the trusty Carrier HVAC unit in the side yard.

I was pretty sure it was going to be an early night. I had some local produce from Croftburn Farms that I judged would not make it into a nice local salad due to sloth. The consequences of multiple trips to the garage basement at Big Pink to dispose of true crap and move less-true crap into the back of the Panzer had taken their toll.

That, and the news that registered on the way down. Enough, I thought. I can’t worry about unrest in Turkey or murdered Guardsmen in London now. There may be plenty of time for that.

I made a stuff drink and clanged the ship’s bell in two “ding-dings” to announce that I was in residence. I checked the email, looked at the salad stuff and decided to pay a call on the Russians before the evening got away form me.

It is ridiculous to drive next door, but I did. For the fiftieth time I made a note to cut a gate in the fence between the properties to shorten the distance, and pulled into the gravel drive in front of the cinderblock garage.

Natasha stuck her head out the kitchen door and told me to go down and see Mattski, Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel and Sasha who were watching bees and cicadas, respectively.

Sasha is seven, and a living doll. I had not seen her since the fall, and she has grown measurably. She is a delightful example of diminutive Russian beauty. Her mother, Natasha’s daughter, is a lovely woman in the middle of two others, and was off attending some conference or another, leaving the Princess with Grandma.

She was having a ball. I sat down next to Mattski in one of the plastic Adirondack chairs where he was observing his hive with binoculars.

“I checked earlier,” he said. “The queen is doing well, so we have one healthy hive out of two. I had hoped for more, but I guess this will have to do.”

“You could have done worse,” I said. “As it is, you have an immense garden with just about everything under the sun that grows, your grapes are in, and you generally make me feel like a slug.”

Mattski shrugged his muscular shoulders modestly as Sasha waved for me to come to her. “She wants to show you something,” said he said, picking up his binoculars to inspect the arrival of a gaggle of workers at the hive. “It is better to do as she says, in my experience.”

I rose from the chair and winced with the weight on my damaged leg. I was game, though, and walked down the meadow behind here to the tree where Sasha was standing, her face screwed up in excitement. As I approached, she beckoned me closer, her hands held cupped together.

When I was close enough to bend over her, she opened her hands and gave out a shriek as eight or nine mature cicadas exploded in excitement, all noise and wing, hitting me in the face and chest in their escape.

(Cicada in the tree. Photo The Lovely Bea).

I laughed, amazed at the experience. Biscuit the Wonder Spaniel leaped up on my leg in excitement at the motion, and Sasha fed her a tasty bug. She then turned studious, and showed me where they had climbed up the tree after their seventeen year slumber, and the husks of the larvae shells they had left behind

It was quite a tutorial in her barely accented English, and I marveled at her boldness and curiosity. She is a remarkable little girl, an Alice in this Culpeper Wonderland of swarming noise and insects.

Eventually there was a call from Natasha up at the farmhouse, and we trudged up the meadow, past the extensive vegetable garden with the extra-high electric deer fencing and assembled on the front porch. Matt got a bottle of Old House red and Natasha poured some white and we luxuriated in the wonder of warmth of the late afternoon sun, the occasional rumble of a pick-up truck coming from Rosemary’s place up the road, and the steady thrum of the cicadas.

Sasha showed me her journal, in which she has documented each day of her young life in careful Cyrillic and English. She was very grave as she turned the pages, and then disappeared into the house. I sipped the remains of my drink and we compared notes on the next project.

Matski’s are much more ambitious than mine, which was to unload the Panzer at some point and maybe cook some dinner. That reminded him that he had a family to feed, and he started to pile some charcoal into the grill.

Sasha reappeared and handed me a page from her journal. “For you,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling. I looked at the image she had drawn. It was a half cat named Simon, carefully noted in excellent penmanship, confronting two sets of stairs. Grandmother and granddaughter slipped effortlessly between English and Russian, depending on the context.

The destinations were identified in Cyrillic, and I asked what they were.

“Czar Simon can rise to heavens,” she said.

“And where does the other go?” I asked.

“To hell,” she said.

Natasha laughed. “Of course. My granddaughter is Russian, you know.”

I thanked her profusely, and told her that this art was significant and merited a special spot on my refrigerator. It was getting to the bottom of the cocktail hour, and Mattski was going to put on some hotdogs, and Sasha began an elaborate process of layering American cheese on a bun in preparation. I said I had things I needed to get done, which was true.

I walked back to the Panzer and waved as I rumbled down the gravel drive to turn down the County road back to refuge farm. I needed to make a fresh drink, and sit out on the back deck and listen to the cicadas.

The day was a success. I met a real принцесса, and I made it to the bed, and did not fall asleep on the couch. Life in the country is pretty damn good.

Jon-Without, The Lovely Bea, and Liz-S were coming by in the morning to transport some surplus crap back up north, but I will have to tell you about that tomorrow.

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com