Empty Nest Syndrome

The last moments of the riddled wasp nest before the fall.

Parchment is not needed when you make a declaration of war against insects. My war has raged into its fourth year and there is no sign of letup because my daughter recently spotted a wasp nest hanging from a shade tree in our side yard. No vacation of mine has been complete this summer without a joust with venomous insects. When I steadied eyes on the high riser of a nest, I could not believe it was an active nest the size of a volleyball. I contemplated just calling an exterminator but I didn't want to swallow the $150.00 bill for a house call.

The bird's eye view at a second story window helped me plot an unorthodox plan of attack. The nest was about 20 feet in the air and another 20 feet from the house. I found a can of wasp spray that advertised its contents could jettison 25 feet in the air. So I climbed into a spare beekeeper's suit kept around the house for nostalgia and yard work. I opened the second story window in my daughter's room and removed the mesh screening. I opened the window only as much as needed then doused the nest with bug spray. Some of the wasps began to leave the dripping wet nest. Other wasps returned from the field leary about entering their contaminated home. The spray of chemicals dazed and confused them. It was prime time to enact stage two of the master plan.

I summoned my son to get his paint ball rifle. With the neighbor's house directly across the side yard, we set the trigger to its lowest velocity. I lowered the window so only the barrel of the gun stuck out. I draped towels inside the window pane left and right of the nozzle. It appeared to be a perfect snipe from a makeshift indoor shooting range. With my track record on venom, there was no margin for error anyway. There didn't seem to be any real danger but my body exuded a cold clammy sweat nonetheless. My kids asked me why I was sweating. I told them the God's honest truth.

"Daddy is a tad nervous." I admitted.

With the rifle now steady in my hands, I took meticulous aim. My first paintball shot ended up hitting a branch and spraying a white mist all over the surrounding leaves. Bam! I plucked a tiny hole in the nest with my second shot. I knew if I missed again my son would want to take over as assassin. I missed. More or less, he took back his paint ball rifle and fired me on the spot.

"Before I shoot, let me say that a responsible adult is telling me to do this." forewarned Jimmy. "I don't want any trouble from the neighbors because this was your idea not mine."

"What ten year old talks like this?" I wondered aloud. "You have my permission. Will you shoot the nest and stop worrying about a potential lawsuit?"

He knelt down and in no time I heard the rapid succession of his semi-automatic weapon. Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow! An expert marksman, Jimmy could have wrote his name in that nest before obliterating it. After about a dozen shots, the nest fell and splattered on the ground. The wasps didn't know what hit them. The three of us cheered before I shed the confines of my beekeeper's suit. A good time was had by all.

There is something so diabolically gratifying about killing wasps from the creature comfort of your own house but that is exactly how it went down. My youngest daughter used a camcorder to film the twelve minute extraction of the nest. The grandchildren will get a kick out of watching grandpa's antics in this home movie.