Granny has returned to Michigan for the summer. She is also missed when not constructing needlepoint or reading in her customary rocker or tending to wild plants or those in pots from the village.

During the thirty years we have owned in Jewell Hollow, it has always been a personal mystery as to why we have never had a serious summer infestation of mosquitoes; no-seeums, gnats and flies of every size and description imaginable, but few mosquitoes.

We keep an outdoor chair stationed a the flow-over end of the pond; on it, I sit and smack flies to feed the fish. Sometimes, I simply sit and overlook the summer house, pond, cabin and the gravel road as it winds its way up the mountain. The view gives great satisfaction and serenity. Recently, at the darkening dusk, I sat on the pond bank to reflect and smoke a cigar. As the last light of dusk turned to darkness, the bats arrived.

There is always more to learn about the wild living things around us in the Hollow. Only now, after all the years, did I learn that late summer dusk brings out bats. I saw as many as four darting and diving at one time; I assume there are more in the vicinity. My theories on the relative paucity of mosquitoes have always centered around the fact that everything in Jewell Hollow sits on a slant; therefore, water is always running off and seldom stays in the same place for long. Mosquitoes, as we know, breed in still water in protected places, auto tires in recline, for example. No still water, no mosquitoes was my theory.

The new no-mosquito theory centers on the bats; mosquitoes and bats are each in flight at dusk, bats eat flying insects -- voila-- Jewell Hollow possesses but a few mosquitoes because the bats eat them. Regardless, the flies, gnats and no-seeums are summer pests enough. Apparently, we are well-served by the bats; certainly we are well rid of the mosquitoes, by whatever cause.

Thursday
"She was bare-ass naked," Boogie emphasized.

"Naked as a jay bird," Charlie agreed.

I was proceeding up the Jewell Hollow state road toward the cabin, after having spent a small amount of money at the discount department store west of the village. Charlie had paused his pickup in the middle of the road to answer a call of nature.

When our vehicles were finally side-by-side, I learned the full story. Charlie and Boogie had driven to Bill's cabin near the end of the state road to relax with a few beers after a day's house construction work. After driving over the small stream and heading to the left to Bill's cabin, they looked to the right to the Donlon place. Standing in the yard, totally naked, stood a young woman. She made no effort to move or cover up, which surprised the mountain men.

"Stood right there," said Boogie. "She must have heard this squeaky old pickup coming,"

added Charlie. After a discussion of the woman's identifiable body parts and hair, and recognition that her car had District of Columbia plates, Boogie ended the naked woman portion of our chat with: "Damn, what have we got, a nudist colony up here?"

While nothing as dramatic as a naked woman has occurred in lower Jewell Hollow, I have recently saved three bumble bees from certain death in the summerhouse.

When the flies are heavy in number and persistent, and they have been this spring, we like to sit in the screened-in comfort of the summerhouse, overlooking the pond. Duda, in particular, is a fan of the cool concrete floor and the freedom from bugs. On warm days, she will exit through the kitchen door of the cabin and stride the walk to the summerhouse, wherein she expects someone to open the door for her; that causes no problem and it delights Duda. The problem is that while Duda is in attendance, the summerhouse door is left open. The open door invited small birds, insects, bees, and an occasional, but rare, raccoon to enter the screened house. The raccoon we had as a guest a year ago, tore up a couple of panels of screening, before we nudged him with a broom to foster his escape. Bumble bees are easier.

When in the summerhouse, bumble bees are constantly crawling the screens, attempting to find a way out. If they are incarcerated too long, they fall to the floor exhausted and are thereupon usually eaten by Duda. If I happen to be in the summerhouse when a healthy bumble bee is attempting escape, I can usually help. I have developed a system: while the bee is walking the screen panels, I cover it with a plastic drinking cup; then, with a swift upward motion, I attempt to scoop the bee into the cup and quickly cover the mouth of the cup with a rag. At this point, the bumble bee is enraged, so caution and a swift covering with the rag are important. I then set the bee to flight, if it is strong enough to resume its normal activity; if not, I sit it on the table, just outside the summerhouse door, in the hope it will regain its strength and return to life and flight.

With all of the small creatures in the forest that are destroyed by the interference of humans, why do I go to the trouble of saving a few bumble bees? When trapped by the screens, they are fighting so hard to be free; that touches me. The underdog struggling against barriers, not of his or her own making, will usually find a supporter in Jewell Hollow. I appreciate that battle and it is rewarding to help a fighting underdog, even a bee. Further, bumble bees don't go out of their way to harass, the way swarming, swirling, stinging flies do. I don't mean harm to the bees and they reciprocate, but the flies are seemingly put in this cosmos to badger, pick-on, and generally be nasty to animals. I kill every harassing fly I can reach, but not bumble bees: they receive aid, if in distress.

Tuesday
The rains have been steadily falling, with modest interruption, for three days. The roof over the main bathroom is leaking. That is a surprise because Charlie has been up on the roof more than once slapping sheet metal and go over every apparent hole. The roof hasn't leaked for months, but with this deluge, the surging water has found a hole that wasn't apparent. I have a copper mixing bowl receiving the water, after it collects on the fiber board that Charlie painted with a rage, all swirly and artistic, like stucco. The fiber board false ceiling is ruined now, but we won't replace it until Charlie goos-up the newest hole in the roof and it has been tested by another long, soaking rain.

When it rains with force and for hours at a time, it is difficult to get the dogs outside. This morning I put on my L.L. Bean rubberized rain coat and took them for a walk, a short one. I noticed all the signs of a real gully-washer: a long brown plume of sand and gravel slammed into the pond through the masonry pipe under the driveway that conveys stream water into the pond; rivulets flowing down the state road at each edge. The state highway department has recently worked in Jewell Hollow, scraping the surface and digging trenches at each side of the road.

During prolonged storms the water is usually blocked by accumulated boulders and gravel at various points in the descending road; when that happens, the water gouges out massive trenches in the road as it crosses it to escape the blockage. Rough driving is the rule on the Hollow state road; post-storm driving is often adventuresome, avoiding the water channels, criss-crossing the road.

On each side of the pond inflow are huge mounds of gravel and mud. After each gully-washer storm, I maintain the water channel into the pond by shoveling out and onto the mounds hundreds of pounds of the newly deposited mountain debris pounded through the pipe by the raging stream. At the other end of the pond, what is usually a foot-wide exit stream of gentle water has become a swirling, brown, angry force, slamming its way over the concrete spillway.

Sometimes during a prolonged gully-washer, the surging water will extend beyond the six foot wide spillway and begin digging our the earthen bank as it tumbles to the stream below. The storm continues relentlessly; soon the exiting water will challenge the earthen fortification of the pond.

The public broadcasting station in the Shenandoah Valley has emitted its doomsday emergency tone. I knew it was for real and that the emergency would involve the endless rain, and it did. It is raining 2 1/2 to 3 inches of rain an hour in Madison County, VA. Madison is over the mountain and midway between Jewell Hollow and Charlottesville. Flood warnings are posted for this entire region of Virginia.

I hope Jeanne will be able to return this evening; she is in Washington, at work on important matters for her trade association. She is taking the early train, in hopes that the low spots in the highway between here and Warrenton VA will still be passable when she begins driving the last leg of her 90 mile train-drive return to the Hollow. The rain steadily continues, but at a slackened pace. The dogs sense that something is not right in the cabin, that there is tension in the air: they are extremely quiet and inactive, even for a dark, rain-driven day.

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