All hands on deck, and the wrong sort of bees

As I began this letter (written on Heritage Day, 3 August 2009, and updated later), which sensitive readers may need to break into smaller segments (you’ll get the point in a few paragraphs), I was unsure what title to use: “How to provoke a hornet and survive nature’s sting” is perhaps too waspish; “Sting operation” seems too short. I settled for “All hands on deck” and threw in A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh reference to pique the reader’s interest.

Put on the kettle and pull up a chair. Remember me? It’s been a while. My coffee companion, Warren Harbeck, wrote to ask, “What’s buzzin’ cuzzin?” when I droned on in a recent note. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the past few months {other than snow on your June birthday, Dad, which isn’t all that extraordinary in Alberta}.

We attended one June and one July wedding (where Robin was the primary photographer), and spent a couple of weeks in Surrey with a sweet and special family. Robin did the post-wedding photo processing at the bride’s home and gave her the albums when she returned from her honeyMoon.

This summer we’re also preparing for the semester ahead: my history-loving husband and I will be co-teaching History of Western Civ. All in all, life in Cochrane’s slow lane has been good.

Let me not forget the bevy of birthday boys and girls. My dear friend Tammy—with whom it is my privilege to spend Tuesday evenings—turned 40 in early July: that was special. And her twins celebrated their 7th birthday.

{Wallace and Dad, do you remember holding the newborn duo in July 2002 when you were last here visiting me?}

And Robin and I spent our annual week at the lake in Vernon with most hospitable hosts. No crises to speak of.

And then suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, all h*ll broke loose in the Phillips household. To test your sense of humour and of perspective, let me begin with today’s wasp attack (and this time I don’t mean those Anglo-Saxon Protestants).

I awoke before daylight (my blinds were drawn) to the melodious hum of my landlord’s chainsaw outside my bedroom window. Finding no alternative but join the crew as a deckhand, I dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt and work jeans and reported for duty. This week we are redoing our deck.

Yesterday after church I helped Mike and Pat clear the deck for the tasks of today, and decided to leave emptying the last of several planters (heavy black tyres filled with soil and a variety of tall ornamental grasses) for today because of the recent scorching mid-thirties temps. This morning as I pulled up a clump of grass, an angry array of black-and-yellow-jacketed bugs swarmed up from their cosy earth-nest.

My very first reaction was “Stay calm, they won’t sting you if you stand still.” (Not sure what movie that came from, but don’t try it at home.) Second reaction was an image of Winnie the Pooh holding onto a balloon while stealing bee-honey ... and getting stung by “the wrong sort of bees.”

Since I didn’t know if my landlord was allergic to wasps, my initial instinct was to protect him and get the nest away from him and off the deck. This reaction unearthed a chain of consequences, to say the least. “Mike!” I yelled (since that’s his name and expletives didn’t seem appropriate … yet), but he didn’t hear me because he was wearing ear protectors.
Then I performed what may well be my first ever supernatural act: I picked up the black rubber planter with its full load of earth and flora, and flung it down the deck stairs. (Bear in mind I have not been able to move these planters in five years, even with a helper.) I then jumped—stumbled—down the stairs, closely followed by Mike.

First I felt an unpleasant buzzing in my ear and yelped in surprise. Next I became aware of what seemed to be dozens of insects settling on my sleeves. And then the fiery darts pierced my skin and the wasp-venom entered my blood. (Isn’t that a truly theatrical sentence? See, I’ve made you read it again, savouring the word “fiery.”)

To find out how wasp toxins work, click on this link: http://animals.howstuffworks.com/insects/wasp3.htm

All of this happened in a black-and-yellow blur. In retrospect, I should have left well enough alone and hightailed it off the deck as soon as I spotted the first incensed insect, but … we all know how hindsight works. I slapped wildly at my arms and started to run. “Get into the house!” I heard Mike’s wife yell from the garden below the deck. Instead I made a bee-line to my next door neighbour, Irma, who flung open the front door as she saw me sprinting up her pathway.

All swell that end swell: Mike and Pat were not stung, thankfully, and I received only a couple of stings on my arms and one in my ear. Yikes. A not-to-be-repeated adventure! Outfitted in a beekeeper’s head covering, Mike courageously returned to the scene of the crime and sprayed the nest, killing dozens of insects and hundreds of larvae. Irma kindly provided lotion for the stings on my arms and suggested I take an antihistamine (I doubled the dose); she also administered some much-appreciated pain meds.

Within minutes I was fine and my hands had stopped shaking. (I felt calm but may have acted hysterically.) Surprisingly, the swelling was minimal and I lessened the burn by applying an icepack. Now only an inner itch remains. Secretly I think it was the strong tea with sugar and the serenity of my neighbour-nurse that diminished the shock.

Research suggests that years of antihistamine injections for assorted childhood allergies paid off after all. {Mom, do you remember Dr. Des Sonnenfeld saying, “This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me”? I always smiled at that.}

There’s more to this letter than meets the eye in this entry. See next post.