Of all the jobs I've had, my least favorite was that of a temporary supervisor or “straw boss.” I only want to supervise one person: me. Supervising peach and apple pickers during the harvest was my official capacity. However, in the short periods between the completed harvest of one fruit and variety and the beginning of another, the grower would arrange for busy work for the pickers in order to keep them from moving on.

The being the golden age of The Dole, I was assigned a small crew of welfare recipients supplementing their monthly check at the insistence of the welfare board. Their work ethic wasn't exactly Puritan.

Our duties included the cutting of tall brush and weeds that had grown up beside the barns and other buildings. There were no weed eaters then so we were using brush scythes, which require you to get pretty close to your work.

“I ain't goin' in that bresh—I'm afraid of a snake.” This was the standard response as the crew leaned on their scythes. I winced as the snaths creaked. Though it's the official West Virginia state phobia, I'm convinced that 90% of the snakes that some people allow to govern a part of their lives simply don't exist. Though I've worked in the woods and fields of West Virginia for more than thirty years, I have yet to see my first live rattlesnake. Not to say that the snakes weren't there—I just didn't notice them. Likely they sat coiled up nearby thinking, “What a putz.”

My response to the crew's reluctance was to grab a scythe and charge into the brush, mowing it down to demonstrate that it did not hide a deadly serpent waiting in ambush.

“What about that brush over yonder? It's closer to the creek, ya' know. Are ya' sure there's no snake in there?” As I mowed another patch of weeds, I began to understand where the character of Pa Kettle originated.

Through the many years since, my attitude toward wild growth has remained the same. I've always been happy to let wild growth soften the edges of our property, while giving no thought to the dangers it might conceal.

Since July 30, though, I've come to regard wild brushy areas on the property with suspicion and even a mild dread. Oh, I'll get over it—I can feel the fear wearing off—but not fast enough.

We don't leave trash around our modest riverside acreage, but we are as susceptible to random pack rat impulses as anyone. One of these treasures was an old bathtub that Stephanie had found somewhere. It reposed discreetly hidden behind one of our sheds. Walking up from the river, I noticed that the tub was about a third full of water. Grasping one corner of the tub, I watched as gallons of murky water and a generation of mosquito larvae flowed across the new-mown grass.

I had stood there for almost a minute when I realized that I was rapidly becoming covered in yellow jacket wasps. The first sting removed any doubt, and the many that followed really helped to drive the point home. I ran through the yard smashing the bugs against my body with my hands (this would later make it virtually impossible to count the stings due to bruising) and reached the back of the Old Black Truck. Fortunately, there was about 110 PSI in the air compressor tank. I used this to blow the wasps away from myself, which seemed to confuse them enough for me to make my escape into the house. Looking out of the window, I could see them attacking some towels hanging on the clothesline.

Of course, I've been stung before. The pain from one or two stings is almost unbearable. However, I felt very little pain after as many as thirty stings. This was my first endorphin release that I can recall. Still, I began to feel the expected “rush” as the venom ran its course.

Normally, I wouldn't even consider calling a doctor but Steph was away for the week and I was home alone. Am I getting responsible in late middle age or what? About an hour after the attack, I called my doctor, Anthony “Sawbones Tony” Haywood. (I'm so pleased with him that I've made him and honorary Garden Stater and given him a “Jersey Name”) I was told that if I wasn't already dead by then I shouldn't worry about it.

I went on about my business, allowing that the day would be shot since I became unsteady while metabolizing the venom. I moved about my usual tractor repair route, making the rounds and the lecture tour about my morning's experience. I found one customer struggling with an old Farmall H. I got the tractor running, but was somewhat handicapped regarding the more precise details of the work. He asked if I should be driving in my condition. I wasn't sure. I moved on to the next project, a Ford 9N near Millwood, and actually put in a fairly good day.

Back home, I slowly approached the yellow jacket nest in order to plan my nocturnal counterattack. I usually locate the nest and then, late at night when all of the yellow jackets are inside, I up-end a long necked bottle containing a little gasoline into the hole. I shove the bottle down into the hole to seal it, then walk away. By morning, the problem is gone and I retrieve and discard the bottle.

I could see the wasps coming and going from under the tub. They sensed my presence and started to become agitated. I quickly retreated. I would have to remove the bathtub to expose the hole. I quietly went to the far end of the tub and pulled it away. Again, wasps rose in a cloud and came after me, but I had a head start and was only stung once.

When they again settled down toward dark, I again went to observe and locate the nest for later gassing. The tub had been the roof of the nest, and removing it had exposed the paper outer wall of the nest itself. This kind of foiled my bottle battle plan. I searched for an idea.

Never underestimate the effectiveness of a .410 shotgun. My old Winchester model 37 gets the job done without making my shoulder ache. If you consider this a child's gun, try thinking of it as a .41 Magnum pistol with a 28 inch barrel. Someone had told me that when these insects attack, they mark you with a scent so the rest of the hive can find you and finish you off.

“Scent THIS you little devils!” was my battle cry as I pumped four rounds of three-inch number fours into the next from about twelve feet away. I then retreated until just before dark. Some of the wasps had been away from the nest during my artillery assault and had faithfully returned to the smoking crater that had been their home. These were dispatched with an application of Hot Shot. An aerial sweep of the spray brought down any who tried to take flight. Done.

I did the math—that is, the size of a number four shot in relation to a yellow jacket. My assault on this nest was like several Civil War shore batteries of twenty-four pound cannon opening fire on a rock concert. Sorry for that image; you can trade the rock concert for Zeppelin Field in 1939 if it helps. It's hard enough to find a place for yellow jackets in nature, much less in our hearts, but I despise inflicting that kind of carnage on anything.

While I consider yellow jackets to be militaristic and warlike, I'm the one who deals with them using an arsenal that would probably be outlawed by the Geneva Convention. I've got artillery, rockets, incendiary, and even chemical weapons. The only things missing are nuclear and biological. (I once assaulted a nest using thermite that my cousin made with his advanced chemistry set. When ignited, thermite burns with sufficient heat to melt titanium. I guess that I've gotten as close to nuclear weapons as any yellow jacket fighter.)

The object of injecting venom is to poison someone, and I felt the effects as the days wore on. One symptom, though, was particularly unpleasant. I've done some pretty nervy things over the years but I don't consider myself to be exceedingly brave. For example, I would never follow the example of actor James Arness. During his military service, he was the first man off the boat to storm the beaches at Anzio. He was selected for the job because he was tall and the taller men went into the water first; as the landing craft moved closer to shore, the water became shallower and the shorter ones followed.

It probably didn't help his chances of bringing up the rear that he achieved alphabetical preference by having an “A” name. Anyway, I would have learned to crouch and changed my name to Zinsmeister. By the time I went to shore, the Italians would have changed alliances, and greetings of “Bongiorno, goomba!” would have replaced 6.5 Carcano bullets.

Still, I've never known such uncontrolled fear as when I again entered our tastefully overgrown backyard: palms sweating, trembling. Someone suggested that this might be Post Traumatic Stress syndrome.* However, the nest is gone and the experience was not all that painful. I theorize that this reaction was caused by a factor of the venom itself—a sort of drug to prevent its victim from returning to the nest.

I found another, smaller nest in the door well of Camp Vanski, the 1978 window van that I use as a writing studio. I couldn't use the van with that nest there, and I week had passed before I could work up the nerve to blast their little yellow butts with Hot Shot.

A wandering laborer once told me the story of encountering a large hornet's nest while working in a Kentucky tobacco barn. The farm's full time resident helper, a scrawny old black fellow, calmly plucked the nest from the rafter to which it was attached and carried it into the woods. A client of mine, now deceased (that's his 1941 Case VAC on this site's opening page), could do the same thing with an above ground yellow jacket next. I would like to know their secret.

For now, though, when the sun is low and flying insects are illuminated by its rays, I look for the bugs that fly straight up for about five feet, then level off toward their destination. This is a characteristic of the yellow jacket. I'll find the next hole and drop something of light color near it so that I can find it in the dark. Just before midnight, I'll make my chemical attack. Instead of insects leaving the nest for their morning duties, tomorrow's sun will find only the glint of an upturned bottle jammed into the ground.

The Yard Wars continue. The enemy is taking a much worse beating than I am. Still, I can't help but worry that, even as a professed tree hugger, I may be just another human contributing to some kind of ecological imbalance. If anyone knows a means of negotiating a truce with the yellow jackets, please let me know. Until then, or winter, “I ain't a goin' into that brush.”

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* (Editor's note: Actually, I said it sounded like a pretty standard post-traumatic reaction. Full-blown PTSD is a whole 'nother animal, and I'd never venture an amateur diagnosis.)

© 2002 tedkalvitis@yahoo.com