Bees – now there’s a real love/hate relationship. We love the honey but hate the sting. Sounds a little like life, doesn’t it? Don’t you just hate it when you pick up your soda can and a bee has slobbered all over the rim?
The other day my grandson, Rhett, asked, “Granny, why did God invent bees?”
So I gave him the old “pollination” speech and assured him that God had a good reason for inventing them. Oh yeah, I included honey, too.
“Okay,” he said. “So why did he have to give them stingers?”
Then he got the “protection” speech.
“Oh, I get it now. So that’s why they stung Grampy when he burned their nest.”
That brings us to the gist of this story.
Walzie is a bee arsonist. He got that from his dad, John. One day when our friends from Texas were visiting, their daughter Staci was playing tag with our boys. Staci brushed against one of the cedar trees in the front yard and suddenly, she began to scream. Yellow Jackets swarmed nearby and one of them got Staci on the cheek. Walzie found the nest hidden deep within the thick foliage of the tree. John quickly volunteered to dispose of those nasty bees come nightfall.
Darkness came and so did Johnny the Conqueror, armed with a can of WD40 and a cigarette lighter which when combined, makes a super duper flamethrower. He told Walzie to slowly separate the branches and expose the nest. Now I know I saw this once in a cartoon; it may have been the coyote and the road runner, but the flames shot out and all that was left was a smoldering snag.
“Holy cow, dad,” Walzie shouted. “Ya’ burned up my tree.”
“So? Got rid of them bees didn’t I?” John said proudly.
Couldn’t argue with that.
Our next encounter with bees happened a few years later as Walzie was moving some landscaping ties around the back yard. He lifted one that had been embedded in the dirt for quite some time. All at once, his sweat pants were covered in undulating black and yellow. He dropped the tie with a thud and ran for the house, screaming all the way.
“Get the WD40,” he shouted. “I’m getting stung.”
He dropped his drawers in the back yard, sprayed the WD40, and lit it – poof – no more sweat pants, no more bees. Except for those still clinging to his … ahem!
“Here,” I offered. “Gimme that flamethrower, I’ll get ‘em.”
“Are you nuts?” he cringed. “Just get the hose and squirt them off. And hurry!”
Then just last week, he came through the house carrying a can of gasoline and a long pole with a rag wrapped around the end. (He was out of WD40.) I knew he was on a bee barbeque mission. We marched across the yard to the mower storage shed. Under the metal ramp was a huge hornet’s nest. Walzie soaked the rag-wrapped pole with gas, lit it, and shoved it under the ramp. Flames shot from under it and licked the end of the shed. I thought sure he was going to burn it down. All of a sudden, Walzie threw the burning stick in the air, ripped off his shirt, and shouted, “Yeow! Gettin’ stung! Gettin’ stung!”
He swatted and I ran. No way was I going to stick around for the massacre. Uh, three weeks later there were still bees under that ramp.
A few days ago, our neighbor, Jody called and asked for the services of the “Critter Gitter”. Seems as though they’ve been hearing a strange buzzing sound coming from inside their kitchen wall, and bees have been seen crawling inside the windows.
Walzie said, “I’ll be right there. You got any WD40? If not I can use gasoline.”
“For what?” Jody asked suspiciously.
“I’m gonna burn those bees,” Walzie informed her.
Jody’s face turned pale. “What if you burn my house down?”
“Don’t worry, Jody,” I piped up. “I have a direct line to the fire department.”
The very next day we saw the exterminator parked in their driveway. I guess that was for the best, gasoline is priced to high anyway!
The other day my grandson, Rhett, asked, “Granny, why did God invent bees?”
So I gave him the old “pollination” speech and assured him that God had a good reason for inventing them. Oh yeah, I included honey, too.
“Okay,” he said. “So why did he have to give them stingers?”
Then he got the “protection” speech.
“Oh, I get it now. So that’s why they stung Grampy when he burned their nest.”
That brings us to the gist of this story.
Walzie is a bee arsonist. He got that from his dad, John. One day when our friends from Texas were visiting, their daughter Staci was playing tag with our boys. Staci brushed against one of the cedar trees in the front yard and suddenly, she began to scream. Yellow Jackets swarmed nearby and one of them got Staci on the cheek. Walzie found the nest hidden deep within the thick foliage of the tree. John quickly volunteered to dispose of those nasty bees come nightfall.
Darkness came and so did Johnny the Conqueror, armed with a can of WD40 and a cigarette lighter which when combined, makes a super duper flamethrower. He told Walzie to slowly separate the branches and expose the nest. Now I know I saw this once in a cartoon; it may have been the coyote and the road runner, but the flames shot out and all that was left was a smoldering snag.
“Holy cow, dad,” Walzie shouted. “Ya’ burned up my tree.”
“So? Got rid of them bees didn’t I?” John said proudly.
Couldn’t argue with that.
Our next encounter with bees happened a few years later as Walzie was moving some landscaping ties around the back yard. He lifted one that had been embedded in the dirt for quite some time. All at once, his sweat pants were covered in undulating black and yellow. He dropped the tie with a thud and ran for the house, screaming all the way.
“Get the WD40,” he shouted. “I’m getting stung.”
He dropped his drawers in the back yard, sprayed the WD40, and lit it – poof – no more sweat pants, no more bees. Except for those still clinging to his … ahem!
“Here,” I offered. “Gimme that flamethrower, I’ll get ‘em.”
“Are you nuts?” he cringed. “Just get the hose and squirt them off. And hurry!”
Then just last week, he came through the house carrying a can of gasoline and a long pole with a rag wrapped around the end. (He was out of WD40.) I knew he was on a bee barbeque mission. We marched across the yard to the mower storage shed. Under the metal ramp was a huge hornet’s nest. Walzie soaked the rag-wrapped pole with gas, lit it, and shoved it under the ramp. Flames shot from under it and licked the end of the shed. I thought sure he was going to burn it down. All of a sudden, Walzie threw the burning stick in the air, ripped off his shirt, and shouted, “Yeow! Gettin’ stung! Gettin’ stung!”
He swatted and I ran. No way was I going to stick around for the massacre. Uh, three weeks later there were still bees under that ramp.
A few days ago, our neighbor, Jody called and asked for the services of the “Critter Gitter”. Seems as though they’ve been hearing a strange buzzing sound coming from inside their kitchen wall, and bees have been seen crawling inside the windows.
Walzie said, “I’ll be right there. You got any WD40? If not I can use gasoline.”
“For what?” Jody asked suspiciously.
“I’m gonna burn those bees,” Walzie informed her.
Jody’s face turned pale. “What if you burn my house down?”
“Don’t worry, Jody,” I piped up. “I have a direct line to the fire department.”
The very next day we saw the exterminator parked in their driveway. I guess that was for the best, gasoline is priced to high anyway!
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