"The mosquitoes are eating me alive!"

"This humidity will kill me if the mosquitoes don't get to get me first!"

"Sand gnats? A nuclear warhead couldn't blast those critters away!"

When he gets to the no-see'ums, I start packing and pouting, and I stay like that all the way to Western Pennsylvania.

Once there, we lug our stuff into our cabin which, more often than not, is when we discover there's no water. It's been a long drive and I'm cranky, so much so that my cat disappears under the bed and may never come out again, but Babe is deliriously happy. He puts a grin on his face to rival The Joker in Batman.

"Don't you feel it? Huh? Don't you? Huh? No humidity!" Next thing I know he's spit-shining his nine-iron.

I make up the beds with fresh linens, cram the refrigerator with food and clean the toilet that flushes only when it wants to. By the time pale slashes of cool, mountain sunshine garnish the inside of our cabin, I can almost manage a smile.

Babe is setting up a golf match before I've had my first cup of Starbucks the next morning. Gulping breakfast like it's his last meal, he brushes past me with a wink and a pat on the butt, which does nothing to improve my mood.

"Ten o'clock tee time!" he quips before leaving me alone with pale slashes of sunshine, a paranoid cat and a temperamental toilet.

Southern to the bone, I feel like a foreigner this far above the Mason-Dixon. I want to be down South where I belong.

After several days of homesickness, I figure there's no point in wallowing in misery, so I volunteer to read my Southern stories to residents at a nursing home. Because I'm a ham, I read them aloud, savoring the smiles on the wrinkled faces of my audience, most of whom are charmed. There is one exception.

Mrs. Beekabolly's dark eyes stare straight ahead, making it impossible for me to wrench a smile from her. For years, she was a librarian so it's like she's shushing me for talking. I even fear her attitude may be a North/South thing, that she holds me personally responsible for the Civil War. I try to ignore her but her eyes keep me coming back for more shushing.

Autumn comes early to Northwestern Pennsylvania and by mid-October, the leaves on the ground resemble an Amish quilt. Faded bathing suits that hung on the line all summer are brought inside and packed away for another year. Five consecutive cool nights signal me to clean out the refrigerator and start packing. Woo Hoo!

I no longer hold out any hope that Mrs. Beekabolly will cotton to my jocularity, but just in case, I save my most humorous piece for last.

After the reading is over, I'm warmed by the hearty applause from the group of seniors I've come to know and learned to love. I hug them all and silently pray they'll still be around when I return.

I'm preparing to leave when I turn to find Mrs. Beekabolly holding out a brown paper sack, her spooky eyes still boring into me.

"It's for you," she says without smiling.

"Why, aren't you sweet." I'm stunned.

"Open it," she commands.

I pull out a five-pound bag of Jim Dandy Grits. "What's this?" I'm grinning like a chessie cat.

She continues to glare. No surprise there. "Its grits," she says like I'm stone stupid.

"But why?" It's no secret that all Yankees hate grits.

"Got 'em over in Altoona. If you freeze 'em, they'll keep till next summer."

"But why? I don't understand."

Her face softens and a gentle smile graces her tight, lizard lips. "I heard homesickness as you read your stories, so I figure if you have a bag of grits up here, it'll be a touchstone to bring you back."

I'd have bet that Mrs. Beekabolly was listening for all my grammatical mistakes. But that wasn't it. She was listening with her heart.

We look at each other and something sweet passes between us.

"Mrs. Beekabolly," I call as she is leaving. "Thank you. I'll see you next summer."

"Then you better write a bunch of new stories, Missy," she quips. "I'm old, and I've got a memory like Jumbo the Elephant and I can't abide reruns."

A thin smile touches her lips again and I catch it and hold onto it as she strides out of my life for another year.