Wednesday, January 25, 2006
“Necessity, the mother of invention!” William Wycherly, 1671.
Every bumblebee that I have ever encountered came with an attitude—somewhat akin to road rage, only worse. If you have been peacefully walking across your lawn and had one of those convict stripped beasts suddenly wham against your head, you know exactly about what I am talking. They consider themselves to be the masters of the great outdoors—every single inch of it. You are the culprit and they are the innocent victims even if you looked both ways before trying to cross the lawn. They behave like kamikaze pilots. Brzzing around in tight circles right around your head, or where your head is supposed to be, intending to inflict bodily harm on you just as soon as they can pick the most sensitive spot for their dastardly deed. Anyone, who has ever survived a close encounter with one of these marauding insects, quickly assumes a defensive posture for dealing with these lawless renegades. You drop to the ground and crawl away. If you care to take a final glance at your nemesis, you will discover that he is still flying those tiny, tight loops around where your head is supposed to be. After all he cannot fathom that anything that big simply can vanish just like that. You can almost hear him spouting out between those angry Brizzes, “Where did he go? Where did he go?”
Few people in life can honestly lay claim to being the inventor of a new sport. While Naismith is noted for the invention of basketball, my claim to fame is that I invented wasp ball. This catchy-named, new sport accidentally originated one day when my friend Hoyt and I were walking around a stock pond barefooted because we did not wish to get our good shoes (our tennis shoes) all muddy or even slightly muddy for that matter. Suddenly a couple of wasps took offense that we were tramping in their private little mud pit. Hoyt, being rather quick of foot, sprung off like a bolt of lightning, leaving me to fend for myself. For reason unknown to me even to this day, I just happened to be clutching in my hands a one inch strip of an old apple crate which was all of about two feet in length. It wasn’t much to be sure but it was all I had. I took the apple-crate bat and swung wildly at a wasp that was bearing straight towards me and missed him but the wind shear, fortunately for me, threw him off course. He veered around and came at me again. Another swing! Another miss! When he came back for yet the third time, my Whiffle Ball experience suddenly unexpectedly surfaced and the wasp went down like a flamed-out Red Baron. Then the second wasp that had just been waiting to mix it up with me came at me fast and furious. Wham! He too was done for! Thus was born wasp ball. Thereafter, whenever I ventured into strange territory I always carried my apple-crate bat in my right rear blue jeans pocket.
On some occasions the two of us needed more excitement than that afforded by wasp ball. On those days Hoyt and I would take our Red Ryder BB Guns and venture out looking for trouble. Actually I think that we only had one gun between the two of us. We would sneak around the neighborhood looking for our prey. We checked every eve until we spotted a wasp nest. Then one of us (I think it was usually Hoyt) took dead aim with the Red Ryder and fired. If one of us missed the other one took a shot at it. Since we were always fairly close to the target—generally no more than ten or twelve feet away—it was hard to miss. The main problem was that you did not want to be standing directly behind the other person in case he successfully bushwhacked the wasp gang. Neither of us ever got stung during one of these daring raids, although we did accumulate a few bruises along the way because one or the other of us was directly behind the other when the bushwhacking commenced and generally the one with the gun was in such a haste to get out of Dodge ahead of the wasp posse that he did not wish to be burdened about who had the right of way. We both grew to adults without either of us feeling any remorse for our outlaw ways.
Years later when I was mowing my own front yard, I just happened to mow over a yellow jacket nest beneath the ground. Suddenly I was swarmed by a horde of the critters and I beat a hasty retreat with my arm throbbing from several stings. I suddenly had fond memories of my wasp-ball bat. But then I realized that I did not need it. My mower was one of those now obsolete models that did not cut off when you removed your hands from the handle. It was sitting atop the yellow jacket nest, still running and completing the mop-up work. By the time it had run out of gas, the yellow jackets were no more.
Every bumblebee that I have ever encountered came with an attitude—somewhat akin to road rage, only worse. If you have been peacefully walking across your lawn and had one of those convict stripped beasts suddenly wham against your head, you know exactly about what I am talking. They consider themselves to be the masters of the great outdoors—every single inch of it. You are the culprit and they are the innocent victims even if you looked both ways before trying to cross the lawn. They behave like kamikaze pilots. Brzzing around in tight circles right around your head, or where your head is supposed to be, intending to inflict bodily harm on you just as soon as they can pick the most sensitive spot for their dastardly deed. Anyone, who has ever survived a close encounter with one of these marauding insects, quickly assumes a defensive posture for dealing with these lawless renegades. You drop to the ground and crawl away. If you care to take a final glance at your nemesis, you will discover that he is still flying those tiny, tight loops around where your head is supposed to be. After all he cannot fathom that anything that big simply can vanish just like that. You can almost hear him spouting out between those angry Brizzes, “Where did he go? Where did he go?”
Few people in life can honestly lay claim to being the inventor of a new sport. While Naismith is noted for the invention of basketball, my claim to fame is that I invented wasp ball. This catchy-named, new sport accidentally originated one day when my friend Hoyt and I were walking around a stock pond barefooted because we did not wish to get our good shoes (our tennis shoes) all muddy or even slightly muddy for that matter. Suddenly a couple of wasps took offense that we were tramping in their private little mud pit. Hoyt, being rather quick of foot, sprung off like a bolt of lightning, leaving me to fend for myself. For reason unknown to me even to this day, I just happened to be clutching in my hands a one inch strip of an old apple crate which was all of about two feet in length. It wasn’t much to be sure but it was all I had. I took the apple-crate bat and swung wildly at a wasp that was bearing straight towards me and missed him but the wind shear, fortunately for me, threw him off course. He veered around and came at me again. Another swing! Another miss! When he came back for yet the third time, my Whiffle Ball experience suddenly unexpectedly surfaced and the wasp went down like a flamed-out Red Baron. Then the second wasp that had just been waiting to mix it up with me came at me fast and furious. Wham! He too was done for! Thus was born wasp ball. Thereafter, whenever I ventured into strange territory I always carried my apple-crate bat in my right rear blue jeans pocket.
On some occasions the two of us needed more excitement than that afforded by wasp ball. On those days Hoyt and I would take our Red Ryder BB Guns and venture out looking for trouble. Actually I think that we only had one gun between the two of us. We would sneak around the neighborhood looking for our prey. We checked every eve until we spotted a wasp nest. Then one of us (I think it was usually Hoyt) took dead aim with the Red Ryder and fired. If one of us missed the other one took a shot at it. Since we were always fairly close to the target—generally no more than ten or twelve feet away—it was hard to miss. The main problem was that you did not want to be standing directly behind the other person in case he successfully bushwhacked the wasp gang. Neither of us ever got stung during one of these daring raids, although we did accumulate a few bruises along the way because one or the other of us was directly behind the other when the bushwhacking commenced and generally the one with the gun was in such a haste to get out of Dodge ahead of the wasp posse that he did not wish to be burdened about who had the right of way. We both grew to adults without either of us feeling any remorse for our outlaw ways.
Years later when I was mowing my own front yard, I just happened to mow over a yellow jacket nest beneath the ground. Suddenly I was swarmed by a horde of the critters and I beat a hasty retreat with my arm throbbing from several stings. I suddenly had fond memories of my wasp-ball bat. But then I realized that I did not need it. My mower was one of those now obsolete models that did not cut off when you removed your hands from the handle. It was sitting atop the yellow jacket nest, still running and completing the mop-up work. By the time it had run out of gas, the yellow jackets were no more.
