With age comes deterioration. And since turning 50 a few years back, the signs are pointing to a pretty rapid deterioration in this aging bird. Case in point: Until stumbling upon and reading this post from May 21, 2009 I had completely forgotten about the great bee invasion. Now, wouldn’t you think sharing the living room with more than 30 bees would be a memorable occasion for a non-deteriorating person? Before you answer the question, read this recycled post. And one more thing. The bees haven’t invaded since 2009, so our house is safe for visitors. Y’all come!
The Great Bee Invasion of ’09
I am pleased to announce that the Great Bee Invasion of ’09 has ended without a single human casualty. The thirty-some bees who claimed our living room as their own weren’t quite so fortunate, and we have no way to garner an accurate count of those Hiram gassed to death. Our best guess is that a whole bunch died.
What we now recognize as enemy scouts had been buzzing around the living room for the past couple days. But we kept them under control with the fly swatter until yesterday afternoon when the invaders launched their troop surge, and they grew so noisy, I couldn’t concentrate on writing. I inflicted minor damage with the fly swatter again, but the buzzing grew louder. A closer look at the double windows on the north wall revealed dozens of bees frantically searching for a route outdoors.
A trip outside and I found the north side of the house a-buzz with bees swarming the foundation. The fly swatter wasn’t much use against those numbers. It was time for the big guns. “Hiram,” I yelled.
A few moments later, my husband, my knight with shining insecticide, attacked the ravaging hoards with numerous cans of bug killer which he later explained he had rescued from Mom’s garage when we cleaned out her house. Once the frontal attack was underway, I cleaned up the remaining pockets of resistance buzzing around the living room windows. Soon the wood floor was littered with striped bodies convulsed by death throes.
We had a quiet night, but this morning, one bold and foolish fella dive-bombed my journal while I was writing. I barely blinked, just whacked him good and brushed him to the floor. Who knows how many other diehards still lurk in dark corners, waiting to attack again? Just in case, I’m keeping the fly swatter handy.
Life is tough along our gravel road. The bees can tell you that the people who live here are tougher. Well, they would tell you if they weren’t dead. But they are dead, so if you’re thinking of invading our house, heed this warning. We’re armed with fly swatters and bug killer. You’d best run for your lives, cowboy.
