The summer after my freshman year of junior high was gonna be the greatest one ever. I’d be spending it in the Poconos, in our brand new house, with my brand new PlayStation.
I’m mid-video game in the living room, when I hear walking just outside. Crunching footsteps down the gravel driveway. There’s a five-step staircase on the side of our house, coming from the driveway to the second floor. Those gravel steps now thump onto the wooden stairs. It’s probably dad, about to tell me to stop playing video games and go outside.
So much for the greatest summer.
One step, two steps, then a sudden shout and an artful selection of curse words. It is dad, but he’s not screaming at me. He’s screaming in pain.
He just got stung by a bee.
This bee, we soon realize, belongs to a hive that has invaded the underside of those wooden stairs.
I stuck my head under the little platform at the top of those stairs. Black bees, I tell dad. Hornets or wasps I conclude, a 12-year-old entomologist.
As I was sizing up the hive, a wasp fighter jet, made a beeline for me.
I ran and just narrowly missed getting stung. I’d need some armor for this fight.
And there would be a fight. We called a strategy meeting, and decided that we’d wash them out with the garden hose sitting next to the stairs. This should be a quick job.
Dad’s swelling hand was the first wound in what would forever be known as the bee wars of ‘99.
First, my armor. I improvised a beekeeper’s outfit. I changed out of my shorts, into jeans, tucked them into my white tube socks and put on my grandpa’s jean jacket. Over that, I pulled a plastic Niagara Falls raincoat, donned a pair of garden gloves, and grabbed a badminton racket for good measure. Crazy doesn’t begin to describe the outfit.
I was on the verge of heat stroke under the clothes and plastic poncho, on that sweltering, sunny afternoon. With the raincoat hood pulled tightly over my head, I gave mom a kiss goodbye and told her to protect my sister. I courageously said everything would be okay. “Keep the door closed no matter what,” I said as I marched out.
In the meantime, dad connected the hose and positioned himself by the beehive. He gave me the signal and I turned the water on. Unfortunately, the hive was tucked under the far corner of the stairs, protected by a crossbeam.
There was no way to get close without being in a direct line of fire from the little attackers. They had a tactical advantage in their positioning.
But that didn’t stop us from launching our offensive. For 20 minutes a geyser of water drenched the side of our house. The walls, the stairs, even the roof were assaulted by a deluge from the hose.
We saturated the walls with so much water, we later learned, that it leaked through to the inside. For years after that, it created a soft spot that would leak every time it rained.
At this point, everything but the hive is drenched, including us.
Bees 1, Homeowners 0.
We retreated to higher ground and regrouped. A new plan was hatched. Smoke.
You smoke bees out, everyone knows that! Only problem was, we didn’t have a smoking canister, or whatever beekeepers call it.
What came next is one of the dumbest things I’ve done in my life.
We went to our pile of firewood, grabbed some logs and kindling, and put them underneath the stairs. The wooden stairs. We worked stealthily, like Solid Snake in my video game.
The bees had no idea what was coming.
Dad and sweaty son took turns trying to light the fire under our home. No easy feat when everything but the hive was drenched in water. The bee defenses would send air strikes every time you got close.
We were now Mario and Luigi, shooting balls of flaming death.
Not quite flaming, as the fire was taking forever to light. More like smoldering. But there was definitely smoke. Sadly the smoke didn’t have its intended impact. The wind carried it away from the hive, and the heat of the fire was only agitating them.
Suddenly a plume of black came from the nest, and I realized that it wasn’t smoke. It was a small army of wasps, charging at me.
As I’m running down the hill, dad realizes that we’re now setting the house on fire.
Luckily our water hose was still connected. I just barely escaped the bees, and dad just barely put out the fire in time.
Bees, 2. Homeowners, 0.
We were wet to the bone and exhausted. Mom suggested that we go to The Home Depot and see if there are bee products we can buy, maybe something formulated to kill them.
“Don’t be silly,” we said, “You don’t just put bee killer in a can.”
But we were out of ideas, and soon in our GMC Safari driving to The Home Depot. While walking through the big orange doors, we were laughing at the silliness of the bee can idea.
Directly across from the entrance was an aisle labeled “pest control.” And in the center of the aisle? A dozen spray cans of bee pesticide. Guess mom was right.
Pull the trigger and it shoots liquid hive death from a 20 foot distance, read the instructions.
Safe, simple, no fires or hoses needed.
We pull back into our driveway. The smoke still hangs in front of the water-drenched house, next to the tangle of hoses. The black bees are happily buzzing around. We’re losing this war.
I armored up and stood way down the property. No more bees chasing me. I looked up and dad was in place for the final battle.
Slowly he reached under the stairs, squeezed the trigger, and an explosion of spray shot from the can. He missed. The nozzle wasn’t lined up with the hive, instead it sprayed wildly into the air and landed way down the property. I watched in slow motion as the arc of pesticide shot like a missile towards me, directly into my face.
Fortunately, my raincoat and sunglasses absorbed most of the impact. Unfortunately, bees still buzzed as they tallied another point. I repositioned, this time behind dad. He slowly crept, squeezed the trigger, and finally covered the hive in insecticide.
Wasps started falling into the smoldering embers below, small jets shot out of the sky.
Within seconds, their fleet was eliminated. It was over. We won the decisive battle, but it didn’t feel like victory. The battlefield was covered in debris, as was our perception of home ownership.
I slowly walked up the stairs, I booted up Metal Gear Solid on the PlayStation, pressed R1 to select a cigarette pack, and had a much needed in-game smoke after a long day in the real world.
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