Growing up in southeastern Massachusetts the words June Bug brought terrifying visions of large hard-shelled dark creepies. Having an older brother didn’t help. He would aim for the back of my neck.
Growing old in southeastern North Carolina the words June Bug (at least this year) mean isolation, quarantine, “corn teen” and prayers for a vaccine. It means Amazon deliveries and weekly post office visits. It means powdered eggs, cheese, milk, and butter. Yuck.
Yes, count your blessings, swampy lady!
No, I will not list those here. There are quite a few. One arrived today. I am an author, searching for an agent. A friendly famous historical mystery author, Deanna Raybourn, wrote to offer encouragement. I became quite excited. Perhaps I will find an agent!
Another blessing worth mentioning is my oldest great niece. Yes, I’m old enough to have one. She turned 26 last Friday and she lives in my beloved UK. Hopefully, she will have a future that allows her to succeed in any field, although, I am rather fond of her current occupation. She’s a baker. A really good baker. She doesn’t burn things. Then there’s my ducks. My beloved readers know I live in a swamp and we co-exist with many species. Mr. and Mrs. Mallard and all their little Mallards cross the road and make my heart skip a beat if there’s a truck coming. In the south, that’s all we drive. Trucks. White ones. Our trucks have automatic alligator alerts, too.
Those Yankee June Bugs would destroy these trucks. They’re quite hard-shelled.
Enough!
Eleanor Tatum 
June Bugs in Rehoboth, and Norton, were huge. Bruce chasing you with one is a funny vision. My brother, Mike was the same when it came to bugs.