I love my back porch. The Farmer built a trellis roof so
vines can grow overhead to provide shade. I sit out there in the afternoon on
the porch swing, enjoying a book in the last rays of sunlight. That is, I do
that most summers. Not this year. This year I have been banned from the porch
by yellow stripey things.
I do not know the difference between the various yellow
stripey things. I can’t tell a hornet from a wasp from a yellow jacket. Obviously,
I know the fatter and fluffier they are, the better. We like bumble bees. They
are basically flying pandas. I am happy
to see these bees returning to my wildflowers and perennials, because I know
they are important for pollination. It’s their grouchy, skinny little cousins I
don’t like.
We occasionally have what I thought were wasps living in the
vines that cover the western side of the house. They can be a problem,
particularly at Thanksgiving when we have close to 40 people sitting on long
tables on the lawn, attempting to eat their turkey and cranberries. Then the
wasps can become a little too interested in anything with a fruit base, from
pie to wine. The food doesn’t last long however, so the wasps move on to other
pursuits.
We have also had wasps living in nests they build under our
star ornament. This farm décor was popular about a decade ago, designed to
resemble the stars that hobos used to paint on the side of farmhouses during
the Great Depression, to indicate a generous handout within. The wasps tend to
find my wall star very hospitable indeed. Every year we have to spray another
nest to repel the flying beasts. But other than that, the wasps usually keep to
themselves.
Things are different this year. 2019 is shaping up to be the
Year of the Wasp. I have the wounds to prove it. I hadn’t even noticed wasps
before I headed out to pull weeds from my garden, halfway through August. I was
happily tugging away at weeds that were threatening to choke out my sedum and
hostas – my flowerbed had been neglected all summer. Suddenly, a little cloud
of wasps rose up from the dirt. I had uncovered a nest. I felt a sting on my
leg, my hip, my hand and my elbow. I swatted and ran for the house, calling the
dog to follow me. I was thinking about jumping in the pool but I wanted to make
sure the pup was safe, so I pulled him into the house with me. I ran upstairs,
continuing to swat and swear all the way. The Farmer popped his head out of the
kitchen where he was in the midst of preparing Sunday dinner for a dozen
people.
“What the…?” He asked, wiping his hands with a dishtowel and
following me up the stairs.
As I stripped off my shorts and shirt and dropped them on
the floor I noticed more wasps rising from the clothing. “Ah! They won’t stop
stinging me!!” I screamed as I hopped into the shower, under a cold blast of water.
The Farmer flailed around the bathroom, swatting at flying pests as I attempted
to soothe my wasp stings under the spray.
For the next two days my 7 wasp stings throbbed in pain. I
used Benadryl and cold compresses to quiet the agony. Then the itching began. I
haven’t itched like that since the sand ant episode in Taiwan. I scratched in
my sleep and woke up raw. I had to choose my clothing to make sure I wasn’t
irritating any of my bites. I couldn’t wear pants or even a wrist watch.
Finally, after 2 weeks, my stings subsided to a dull
mosquito-level itch. And then, I noticed a wasp in the kitchen. I tried to swat
it, but it escaped. I thought it had gone out onto the porch, so I closed the
door. About half an hour later, I felt something in my hair. Panicked, I
swatted at it, and got sting #8, on the back of my hand. I have scars all over
my body from these wasp stings. And yet the swarming jerks continue to pursue
me, whether I am walking the dog or taking a lunchtime stroll at work.
Perhaps I have enough of their venom coursing through my
veins now, they think I am one of their own. I’ve had it. I’m ready for fall.
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