mos-qui-to (me sket' o) noun, pl. -toes or -tos
small biting insect that sucks blood from John in the matter of seconds once he steps out into the open
I had a few encounters with these little buggers while in the Everglades and that was to be expected. But good grief, the further north I go the more plentiful they are. At this camp in south Georgia they were so bad I couldn't go outside for more than a minute before they swarmed me. I sent Sinbad out on his own and he was happy to just sit there, without me. A fur coat is good mosquito protection.
The next morning I stopped to see the ruins of an old sugar mill. I didn't finish reading the first sentence on the historical marker sign before they were on me, but I was not to be denied. I ran the 100 yards into the woods to see the ruins and they were even thicker there! Hastily I snapped three pictures and sprinted back to the Little House on the Highway. Score 3 bites for the mosquitoes.
Today in South Carolina I stopped at an old southern mansion. It was raining with a slight breeze "I should be good here". Nope! They nailed me right away. Back to the LHOH. Score 2 bites for the mosquitoes. Smashed one of the little bastards against the driver's window. Score 1 for John.
Tomorrow the uniform of the day is long sleeve shirt and gloves (I am already wearing long pants) with bug juice on face, ears and neck. Maybe I'll put the bug juice on my hands instead of gloves. No need to attract attention. And the people here live with this day to day! Unbelievable. The interesting thing is that some of the areas we've been in are the same ones we were in this time last year and nary a skeeter was seen on that last trip. As I drove away from the plantation I reflected on the 100 some slaves that worked the rice fields for the plantation owner and the misery they must have suffered from just the mosquitoes alone.