Reflections on the Thirteenth Week of Summer – Yellow Jacket Nuisance

    At Wells Wood, the end of summer brings goldenrod, a smattering of orange-red maple leaves, and our neighbor Laurelie’s school bus rumbling past at 7:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. The end of summer also brings cooling temperatures and diminishing food which makes yellow jackets more of a nuisance.

    Two weeks ago our son Charlie said he lay on the guest bed holding his WiFi phone and listening to The Inquiry podcast when he felt an odd tingling on his left arm.

I’d probably have suspected yet another earwig and swatted the insect.

    Luckily Charlie didn’t.

    He rolled his arm to look. A yellow jacket walked up his forearm and onto his elbow. He set the phone down, eased off the bed, and calmly walked down the hall.

    “You’ve got a yellow jacket on your arm,” I shouted standing between him and the door.

    Charlie motioned me aside with his right hand and opened the door. He walked to the porch railing, touched his left upper arm against a post, and waited for the yellow jacket to step onto the wood.

    Okay, not such a nuisance since the yellow jacket didn’t sting him, but I didn’t like the idea that a yellow jacket had sneaked into the house.

    Then last week, I bundled from top (fuzzy headband) to toes (purple Bair Paw socks) for the 55º F (13º C) porch. I dragged furniture to make stretching space and emptied the canvas tote bag of yoga gear–blocks, strap, blanket, and mat. The DVD whirled in my laptop emitting Rodney Yee’s calm voice. I lay on back with arms stretched to the side and pulled my knees to my chest. Cicadas droned and crickets chirped. I lowered my knees to the left and twisted to the right.

    A bald-faced hornet twitched on the cement six inches from my right hand.

    I stared at the white rectangles on its face and watched it lift then settle one pair of legs after another.

    Rodney’s voice soothed. “Breathe. Relax.”

    I breathed but didn’t relax. Those white vertical stripes reminded me of the gang of bald-faced hornets, really wasps of the yellow jacket family, that sat on my left hand and stung repeatedly eleven years ago. Back then I’d held an open can of stain in my left hand and brushed the deck railing with my right. Dripping stain and oily fumes must have penetrated their hidden nest below the deck. Aggressive, angry wasps stung their protest. I’ve use that painful experience for an excuse to make re-staining the deck my husband Spence’s job.

    So stretching for downward facing dog, sage twist III, and cobra, I kept an eye on the bald-faced hornet lifting its legs into yoga poses.

    Afterwards, I packed my yoga gear and carefully moved the love seat around the wasp. I hung the yoga bag over my shoulder, picked up my laptop, and peaked under the love seat. The wasp twitched its feelers.

    No sting. Phew.

    I stepped inside the house and a searing jab, like the stab of a sewing machine needle laced with concentrated jalapeño peppers, pierced the top of my right foot.

    Ouch.

    The leg lifter had a companion that hitchhiked on my Bair Paw sock.

    I set down the bag and computer to bend and lift the sock away from my skin.

    The stinging wasp flew away rather than sting again. Great. We had another wasp in the house.

    This past Monday, Spence put his computer on the coffee table, stretched his his arms over his head, and said, “I’m going outside to ride my tractor.”

    His tractor rattled to the south garden past raccoon prints on weed-controlling black plastic. Spence steered between four to six foot high asparagus plants and mowed “monster weeds.” On the third cut between plants, he lowered the brush hog too far. The blades hit dirt. Cruuuunch.

    Spence glanced over his shoulder.

    Yellow jackets poured out of a hole in the scraped ground and swarmed the top of the brush hog.

    He pulled the lever to lift the brush hog, pushed the gas lever to full speed, and hightail it away from the yellow jacket colony.

    By then the yellow jackets, a favorite raccoon treat, had figured they couldn’t sting the brush hog. They didn’t follow the tractor.

    Three yellow jacket encounters with three Wellses–perfect for the rule of three writing technique. I had a blog topic for the week.

    Then Saturday morning arrived. I bundled for 56º F (13º C), moved porch furniture, and set out yoga gear. I reached for the door knob to go back for my computer and Rodney’s DVD. A bald-faced hornet slept on the mullion between the glass panes.

    I dropped my hand. No way would I open the door and let that serial stinger inside.

    I knocked on the door.

    Spence stood at the stove and kept his back to me.

    The sleeping wasp didn’t move either.

    I walked around to the deck and called through the sliding screen door. “Please unlock this door for me.”

    Spence left his spatula beside the cast iron skillet and opened the side door. “I thought you knocked on the front door.”

    “I did. But there’s a bald-faced hornet on that door. I don’t want it inside.”

    I fetched the computer and left through the side door. Stretching with Rodney’s calm voice, I glanced at the porch door. The million hid the snoozing wasp. I looked before placing any body part on the cement, shook every piece of yoga equipment before stuffing it into the bag, and stepped back through the side door without getting stung.

    After breakfast, I settled in the Adirondack chair and wrapped myself in a red fleece blanket. Focusing on the computer screen, I tapped computer keys to record my yellow jacket saga.

    Spence jumped up from the sofa and hustled around the coffee table.

    “Hold still.” He grabbed a piece of paper and tugged the folds of the blanket. “You’ve got a wasp on the blanket.’”

    I didn’t need a fifth yellow jacket for my story!

    “Oh.” Spence slid the paper against the blanket. “It’s a cricket.”

    A large black, silent cricket sat on Spence’s paper. He carried across the room and fling it out the door. “It’s better outside rather than having babies in here.”

    So, before another insect reacts to the cooling temperature and sneaks into the log house, I’m typing THE END.