The Old Folks At Home

The Yellow Jacket Caper…

A well insured man should not listen too closely to his wife.

After having proved to my satisfaction that the high wheel lawn trimmer my shy and retiring bride of some 45 years had insisted on purchasing was useless in the uneven, rock-strewn ditch that runs between our driveway and the pasture fence for about 1,300 feet, I did not say, “I told you so”, but I did remind her that she had heard it here first.

My old Sears Brushwhacker was dead due to a leaky fuel tank and, since it was 20 years old, I only got snickers from the Sears parts people when I tried to order a new one. My only choice was to get a new Brushwhacker which I did. I unpacked the rascal, assembled and fueled it. Two tugs on the starter cord and I was rewarded with that throaty roar of power I had missed and couldn’t wait to get to the ditch and wreak havoc. I installed the deadly 8-toothed, steel blade on the head and smiled inwardly as I waited impatiently until 4 p.m. and a cooler temperature to sally forth and do battle with the weeds and broom grass.

Though the ferocity of my attack had dog fennels uprooting and running for their very lives, my foray into the ditch with the new Brushwhacker was only a partial victory as I didn't get the whole area subdued due to a nest of yellow jackets in the last 4 square feet of the section I had marked off to do. Having encountered these pests before, I departed the area, the sonic boom disrupting their malevolent plans. I returned to my castle in defeat.

Miz Dee had heard that gasoline was just the thing for yellow jackets and all that was needed was to pour a little on the hole. That sounded simple enough. About dusk, I got a 5 gallon can and away we went with the gusto of a hound dog hot on the scent of a bag of Alpo.

I sloshed some gasoline where I had seen the yellow jackets emerging and darned if they didn't start coming out in at least one other place and possibly two. I hastily sloshed on more, probably close on 3 gallons or more. There was a bunch of them climbing around on the tall grass and weeds though they seemed a bit disoriented by the gas fumes and Miz Dee was spraying at them with hornet spray.

Miz Dee, a closet pyromaniac I learned, suggested we light the spot on fire to get the yellow jackets climbing around on the tall grass and weeds I had been unable to cut. While the idea initially sounded reasonable, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise and I should have taken that as a warning.

We tried to light a Kleenex with the car cigarette lighter to no avail. We drove back to the house and got a box of matches and returned to the scene.

Did I mention that the ditch is on a goodly slope and that gasoline fumes are heavier than air and will seek the lowest point? Well, I lit the Kleenex and tossed it into the little stand of grass and weeds with no result until a small part burned free and fell to the ground.

Suddenly, with a significant “WHUUUMMMMP”, the air was filled with flaming yellow jackets as a fireball erupted over our heads and then, with a loud “SWOOSH” raced like a blue rocket down the ditch setting the entire world on fire. Fortunately, there was green grass on the other side of the fence that runs parallel to the ditch and the barren driveway on the other.

Fearing litigation that would put me in the poorhouse for the remainder of my days, I raced through the falling yellow jackets who were even more disoriented and not a little bit angry and beat into submission a rapidly advancing 8 feet wide wall of fire at the lower end. Fear had panicked her and Miz Dee was performing like a champion country/western clogger. She stomped the upper end out in seconds.

This little job took 2 hours and cost me my best leather Velcro sneakers and a new pair of pants. Why do I listen when I know better, why, why?