The Hornet Crisis

Every Friday, my blog will be a condensed version of an excerpt from one of my books.  Today’s is from Goldstone Inn, Volume 1—The Hornet Crisis.

Bright and early on Monday morning I got a call from Bessie Lindbladt.  She said that her sister Grace had been bathing and the handle broke off to the hot water, so the water wouldn't turn off.  It just kept running and running, and they were so fretful.  Bessie said excitedly into the phone, “We can’t just let all that hot water keep running down the drain!  Can’t you come over here and fix it for us right away, please?” 

I can never say no to those darling old widowed sisters.  They have often called me up, imploring to me, “Jedidiah, come quickly and help!”  When I arrived at their house fifteen minutes later I turned off the water at the main shut-off valve.  I told them I would need to get some parts to fix the problem, but the hardware store didn't open until 9:00.  They saw that as an opportunity to keep me around and have me fix some other little items, but they did insist I eat breakfast with them--blueberry pancakes and maple sausages.  Not wanting to disappoint them, I complied!

After eating I tightened up some squeaky hinges on two doors, re-hung a window screen that had fallen off of a second-story window, and changed a light bulb at the top of the staircase.  Satisfied that the store would finally be open, I left for the hardware store to buy the plumbing parts needed to repair their faucet.  Returning from the store, Bessie met me at the door, pleading for me to do one more little thing for them when I got done with the tub faucet.  There was a nest of hornets underneath the porch, and she asked me to spray them so that they would go away.  I agreed to help her with the hornet crisis and set to the task of repairing her faucets first.

It was nigh on to noon when I was done with the plumbing repair, and as I walked through the house to the kitchen, I could smell the aroma of something wonderful cooking for lunch.  I knew though that I had better skedaddle out of there before they talked me into eating another meal, or I could be there all day.  Sure enough, they tried their best to convince me to stay and eat German sausage and potato latkes, but I firmly declined. 

“Okay then, if you must get back to your family, I understand,” said Bessie.  “I put the hornet spray can by the back door.  I found my Earl’s old beekeeper’s hat and veil.  It’s kind of dirty, but you can wear it if you want to.  It’s next to the spray can.”

I gave the hat and veil a cursory exam, and decided that the veil was so frail that it would probably rip if I were to pull it on, and it looked very dusty and had something green growing on it, maybe mold.  I told Bessie I’d be fine without it, and cautiously took the spray can to the place she had pointed out as the nest position.

I warily bent down to look under the porch floor, and could see the nest, swarming with the wicked little creatures.  I pulled up my collar, and buttoned my top button tight, rolled down my sleeves and buttoned the cuffs too, and pulled my cap down firmly on my head.  I approached the soon-to-be victims, and reached as far as I dared with my finger firmly perched, ready to spray.  Just as I was about to push the button, I heard the screen door slam, and Bessie’s shrill voice said, “Jedidiah, don’t you think you should at least wear gloves?”  But it was too late.  The serene little buzzing group of hornets had become alerted to my presence, and suddenly they swarmed toward me.  I pushed the plunger on top of the can and spray started coming out wildly in all directions. 

I saw the little buzzards coming towards me, just before I felt the stinging of the poison in my eyes.  I dropped the can and turned to run, but I tripped over my own big feet and fell flat on my butt.  I could hear the buzzing of hornets and felt them crawling on my hat and shirt sleeves.  Suddenly I felt the unmistakable pain of a stinger as a hornet released its thorn into my neck under my beard.  And another stung me on my chin; a third on my cheek, and again on my other cheek.  I was wildly trying to comb them out of my beard, and Bessie had come charging out of the door with a broom and was swatting me with it, presumably to scare away the bees.  Grace had come out too and I could hear her screaming, “Stop, stop, go away you miserable little varmints.”  She had picked up the can and was spraying the poison into the open air, away from our faces, and as I cautiously opened my eyes I saw that Grace was wearing the old moldy beekeeper hat and veil.

The scene would have probably looked hilarious to an onlooker, but it was anything but funny to me.  I had at least four stings on my face or neck, and probably several bruises too from being swatted with a broom, not to mention the trauma of falling on my backside and hornet spray nearly blinding me. 

Grace had succeeded in scaring away all of the hornets, and they whisked me into the house as quickly as two seventy plus widow women could drag a very sore old carpenter.  They set me into a hard kitchen chair and doused my beard with cold water and washed my eyes with a cold wash cloth.  All the while, Grace continued crying and kept repeating, “Oh my, oh my.”

The pain was horrendous.  I hadn't been stung for years, but with four stingers in close proximity, my face was in a lot of pain.  And swelling was quickly settling in.  So much swelling in fact that Bessie became alarmed, “Jedidiah, are you allergic to hornet stings?  You don’t look so good!”

I mumbled that I didn't know if I was allergic or not, but I could feel my eyes starting to swell shut, and I heard one of the sisters on the phone, ostensibly calling 911.  I don’t know how soon they got there, but shortly there were paramedics swarming in the kitchen, and I had been jabbed in the thigh with a syringe of something that was supposed to stop the allergic reaction that I was allegedly suffering.  The paramedics insisted on taking me to the hospital, but they helped me to walk to the aid car, not making me get strapped down to a gurney.

At the hospital I was examined by a female doctor, and in my opinion, she took great pleasure in commanding to the nurse to shave my beard so that she could see the wounds more clearly.  I tried to protest, but I was frankly almost as afraid of Doctor Lovelace and her nurse as I had been of the hornets, so I relented.  The weather was getting too hot for the full beard anyway.  The nurse cut away as much of the beard as she could get with small scissors, and then she lathered up my face with some kind of strong smelling shaving lotion.  The lotion burned on the hornet wounds; it felt more like rubbing alcohol than shaving lotion, and I tried to bear down and tolerate the pain of the shave without losing my temper or allowing any tears to escape from my green-gray eyes.

It was all in all, a horrific experience.  The only good part was the homemade raspberry pie and real whipped cream that Bessie and Grace delivered to my house after I was delivered home by my eldest son, Caleb.  He was taking the situation very lightly, and not giving me any sympathy.  Not in a very good temper by then, I didn't even thank him for picking me up, and when I saw the pie and cream, I told him he couldn't have any.  I was planning to eat the entire thing myself!

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Is there a moral to this story?  Perhaps—helping a neighbor does not always bring great rewards, but raspberry pie isn't bad!

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Marilyn White's novels are available at local Enumclaw bookstores:  The Sequel, The Salt Shaker, and Mountain Aire Mercantile.