Wicka Wicka Wicka – My Summer of Bats

Wicka wicka wicka is the sound of a bat’s wings flapping in the night sky. This is according to the author of a horror book I once read.  It is a sound that I dread hearing. Short of death, and speaking in public, bats are my biggest fear. I don’t know where that fear comes from. Most likely something from my childhood. But that fear is real, It is the only thing that I like about winter…no bats!

So now that my fear of bats is established, let me tell you the stories of two incidents that occurred thirty years ago. My summer of bats.

First, my ex-wife and I owned a big old home on East Franklin Street in Slatington.  One morning, very early, I came out of the bathroom after a shower.  Wearing nothing, and carrying just a towel, I entered the hallway and immediately saw a giant bat flying toward me! I know it wasn’t really a giant bat but to me it was a f@#king eagle! So I quickly dodge into the bedroom and close the door behind me, leaving the bat in the hall. My wife, still in bed, asks me what’s wrong. I tell her…. it’s a b b b b bat!  She, who is not afraid of bats says …. well, we’ll have to take care of that.

I open the bedroom door, just a crack, and into the bedroom it flies!  Super! So now my mission becomes…kill the bat, kill the bat. Animal lovers may want to stop reading here.  At this point, to me, nothing exists but me and the bat. I am Captain Ahab and he is my  great white whale.  The bat, let’s call him Moby, is circling at the ceiling. I, still totally naked, start swinging at him with my towel. I miss every.. single.. time. I miss the bat…but I am hitting my wife with the towel.  She is yelling…stop, stop, you’re hitting me!.

Remember when I said nothing existed but me and the bat. Well, also not existing were the two neighbor kids, Marc and Corey, who were outside getting papers ready to deliver. They heard every word from our bedroom including my wife’s yell to stop hitting her.  They thought I was beating her up! They got their dad.

But first, back to Moby. Animal lovers spoiler alert. I killed the bat with a tennis racket.

When the dad arrived, my wife and I both explained that nothing was happening other than the assassination of Moby Dick. We were able to show him the carcass for proof.  By the way, it wasn’t an eagle it was more like a hummingbird in size.  So Dad and Corey were satisfied by our story. Marc, on the other hand, was aloof to me the few more years that we lived there.

I said that I had two bat stories but I am going to save the other one for another post.  I am a little traumatized now having shared this one story.  It is summer time and they are out there,  flying the night skies, wicka wicka wicka.  But I still have my tennis racket.

Enjoy this sunny summer weekend. But tonight, watch out for bats!!