Forget Birds. It should have been The Wasps.

This is part four in our wasp saga. Not for the faint of heart.

There's a round, metal lid in the corner of our back yard. I have no idea what was meant to go inside of there. It doesn't align with gas or water at all and doesn't have an embossed identifier on it. All we knew was that there were a couple of holes in it and in the dirt around it through which passed many dozens of dark wasps. We could see them swarming like diabolical blobs of evil ugly during the day, shamming innocence as they sipped nectar and grinned in a manner more creepy than a love child born of Agent Smith and Jack Nicholson a la The Shining. 

We've been discussing what we could do to get rid of this nest. One option was to flood the whole thing with ammonia. Another was to pay $81 and have a guy called Froggy out to do it. We considered waiting for first frost to kill the little nippers. My personal preference was to spray it down, get closer and spray into the holes pretty thoroughly, and then wait an hour or so before prying the lid off with a long stick.

Dave had another idea. It's a rainy night, he already has a migrain, his shoulder is as bad as ever since the cortisone shot has worn off, and he's feeling pretty jaded about what kind of pain tiny wee insects might cause. He figured he could just don a hoodie and long pants and go out while it's still raining and cold and just get the lid off in a trice. 

It was well after dark when he set out to get the job done. The two younger kids were already in bed and the two older kids couldn't hardly watch him advance up the hill through the light of the back porch. My job was to wait at the sliding screen door and open it when he got close and shut it as soon as he was safe. I shushed the kids' urgent questions and observations and watched in serious anxiety as Dave began to fumble with the lid.

He seemed to get some good leverage on it for a moment but suddenly jerked back like his thumb has encountered one of the nasty creatures. We all jerked back in unison but leaned forward again as he went in with grim resolve. He sort of casually flipped the lid open with a twist of his hand, peered into the hole briefly, and then sauntered down the hill toward the house.

I couldn't believe that he seemed so... well, nonchalant about the whole thing. You know, like the embodient of "meh." I opened the door wide for my hero and kept the eagle eye of withering skepticism on his jacket. He was inches from safety when I slammed the door in his face. "There's one on you!" I yelled. "Stay out there and get it off!" 

He looked down and said "where?" As he turned, I saw several wasps attached to him in an attitude of the kamikaze, throwing their whole bodies into the work of death. Their small frames were arched as they attempted to both sting and bite him through the thick cloth. He shook and flicked but they held on and that's when the swarm hit.

The whole of the light from the porch fixture was filled with angry, dark, silent wasps and I had shut him out, damning him to an insectoid purgatory. They flew at David, batting unsuspecting moths aside and plowing through the waning rain. I stared in horror through the thin screen door as Dave seemed to maintain his cool and wipe off wasps that had even gotten inside his hoodie. "Are they off? Are they off?" he asked repeatedly and I couldn't even say as many dozen of them sought the destroyer of their home. 

He ran to the side of the back deck and disappeared into the night. The swarm stayed put and I closed the glass door apparently just in time. As I continued to examine the wasps from the safety of my kitchen I saw that one of them had found a tear in the screen and was banging against the glass. 

I ran to the front door and flipped on the porch light. There was Dave, looking all over his hoodie and jeans for any hangers on and I looked with him, once again from behind a door. "Are they off?" he asked again.

I was afraid to answer. "I think so."

He carefully stepped inside, then suddenly ducked and started growling. He ran outside and batted at his head and turned his hoodie inside out. "My ear!" he yelled. "Why did it have to be the ear? That isn't going to help the migraine." 

I stood back from him and poked the hoodie with a fly swatter, turned over his hat, and continued to examine the whole of his clothing. Examination of his ear revealed a remarkably sizable crater. It actually looked like an attempted piercing from the back of his lobe. How the hateful little filth managed to get that far into the crevice behind his ear, I don't even want to know. 

We all went and looked at the swarm still raging in the back yard. If anything, they were flying thicker and faster than before. Some wasps had actually arranged themselves in the attitude of attacking the screen door in the manner of those that had adhered to the hoodie earlier. I opened the glass of the kitchen window where one wasp had taken his battle stance and tapped the screen with the fly swatter with growing force. It clung and didn't even shift until my blows began to rattle the window. 

The older two kids were in complete awe of the whole situation. I apologized to Dave for trapping him outside with the beasts but he praised my judgement and said it was a very good call. We laughed and wondered how people in "olden times" took care of such monstrosities. We marveled that Dave got off with only one bite. He asked me for a favor. Eyes wide and nearly tearful I answered: "s-sure." "Would you please start some bread dough for tomorrow?" Again we laughed. I made a double batch.

Next time, we pay the $81 with gratitude.

At this point he's going to wait until tomorrow before he goes out again to spray the nest, now that it's exposed, and we will pray that this is the last we hear from wasps for a very long time.