Feeling the sting of bees

I had planned to write this column about our first family road trip. But an amazing thing happened — there were no incidents.

I’ve heard horror stories about traveling with babies, where fathers have had to crank up their stereos to ridiculous levels to drown out screaming kids and when one dad even considered walking home to Culpeper. He was three states away at the time.

But, and I’m not bragging here, our trip was uneventful.

No insane screaming, no messy Interstate potty breaks, no embarrassing baby stories.

I’m sorry to disappoint.

However, my trip did renew my battle with bees.

We all have them somewhere. That wasp’s nest in the garage, the honeybees that just won’t leave you alone on the deck or the yellow jackets that always hang out on black wrought iron wrought fences.

Thankfully, I’m not allergic to bees. Because, if I was, I’d be dead for sure. I’ve been stung so many times I haven’t attempted to even keep count, but it’s easily in the dozens.

This past week, my battle began as I was helping work on Sarah’s pap’s yard. The family is sadly having to sell pap’s house, so we all convened during my vacation to do yard work and housework.

Yes, even on my vacation I work.

So, as we were working on the yard, Sarah’s cousin Ben yelled out and slapped himself on the head.

The first shot had been fired.

Apparently we had disturbed a wasp’s nest somewhere in the ground and they weren’t happy about it.

A little while later, I felt water dripping from under my worn American Eagle hat. My work hat was once my dress hat (yes, in my family we have dress hats, work hats and everyday hats, I blame my dad) but now it’s covered in every color of paint from my house and is so rotten it’s about to fall apart.

So I just thought I was sweating through my hat. Until I put my hand on my head and came away with a crimson streak.

Here, a wasp had crawled up under my hat and was just chilling on my forehead. Had I left it alone, it might have flown away undisturbed. But of course, as I swatted it, it stung.

Now, usually I complain when I’m stung. Or when I’m sick. My wife says I’m a baby, I say I’m just a guy. It’s the only time we complain, when we’re sick or injured.

But, being around a bunch of men, I kept my mouth shut until I took my hat off. By that time my forehead had swelled so much that it looked like I was hiding a Red Hot candy ball in my skin.

Attractive.

After a few days, I was back to normal and back home working on my yard. That’s when I met my mutant yellow jacket. As I was mowing my backyard, I was swarmed, but thankfully not stung.

That’s when I saw it. This bee must have been the width of a silver dollar and as long as my pinky finger. It didn’t look happy to see me.

I slowly backed away, revving the engine on my weed eater as if to scare it away. Frightening? Maybe only to my neighbors watching the bizarre scene of me tiptoeing through my yard like a ballerina.

After quickly retreating for bug spray, I scared away the mutant bee, even though I’ve since seen him hanging out around my flowers. I’d kill him, but I’m afraid he’d break my modest fly swatter.

Even if they do sting me, bees don’t bug me that much. But my wife and her sister are the ultimate Entomophobics. If a bug even thinks about walking into the house, they both scream in a high pitch voice “bug, bug, bug,” which is the man’s cue to squash said bug and then proudly display it’s dead carcass to prove it’s gone.

So bugs, beware, if you come to my house, you’re going down. Just don’t scare my wife too badly.