6 June—Today we celebrate the 78^th anniversary of Operation Overlord, popularly known as D-Day. D merely stood for Day and was actually the standard code designation for most major military operations—including invasions.

That logically takes us to mayflies. Below is a diptych composite photograph of a mayfly that alit on the window screen by my moribund desktop computer just over a week ago—actually in May—along with several other mayflies. Same little Ephemeropteran wight in both shots, just from slightly different angles. Given the six legs and long tail, I naturally named the mayfly Joey Chabadnik.

The other mayflies that arrived with Joey Chabadnik were bigger, didn’t spend too long on the screen, and didn’t go anywhere near Joey. Not being au courant with mayfly taxonomy—or any taxonomy—I can’t attest to the species of any of the mayflies on the screen.

I mean, there are over 3,000 mayfly species worldwide, 600 in the United States alone. And at the risk of seeming bigoted, all mayflies look alike to me. Except Joey Chabadnik, of course.

While I can’t speak to Joey Chabadnik’s species with any certainty, I’m pretty sure that he’s of the male gender. Or that she’s of the female gender. Male mayflies tend to be smaller than females and, among other distinguishing characteristics, have so-called claspers to hold the females during intimate relations. The two black things protruding from Joey Chabadnik’s abdomen may be a clasper. Or not. I don’t intend to invade Joey Chabadnik’s privacy any more than I have done to investigate.

Male mayflies also have bigger eyes than females, the better to scout out their ephemeral mates. Or, like teenagers, do mayflies depend on pheromones? There are no certified female mayflies around now with eyes and other parts to compare with Joey Chabadnik’s anyway.

In all events, Joey Chabadnik is still on the screen and will remain there undisturbed by me until whenever. Whatever the cause of Joey’s prolonged inactivity, it brings to mind a popular novelty song of 1950, recorded on 78s (remember those?) by Teresa Brewer, Ella Fitzgerald, and (of course) Spike Jones, “Molasses, Molasses.”

The refrain is, “Molasses, molasses, it’s icky sticky goo, Molasses, molasses, it always sticks to you.” The last of the Lewis Carrollian (or Carrollesque, if you prefer) nonsense verses is, “There was a man named Fred Who loved to stay in bed. When, by and by, they wondered why, They found out he was dead.”