Show Me the Honey


The first time I felt the wasp buzz by my ear, I didn't really notice. I was engrossed in a book and simply waved the wasp away without looking. But the second time it came so close it sounded like a fighter jet doing flight maneuvers around my head, and I was pretty sure that the wasp thought I was behind enemy lines. The third time it dive-bombed me, I dropped the book and ran away from my lounge chair, screaming like a little girl. When I thought the coast was clear, I ran back for my book, and that's when I saw it: a giant wasp nest. I have no idea how I hadn't noticed it before. It was the size of a small planet, or at least as big as my fist, hanging directly under the bottom of the deck railing next to my lounger. As though the sheer size of the nest weren't enough to draw my attention, it was also abuzz with activity as wasp after wasp emerged from one solitary hole and then took flight to search out other innocent suburban housewives to antagonize.

I should mention that when it comes to flying, stinging insects, I do differentiate between the good kind (honeybees) and the bad kind (murder hornets), with terroristic suburban wasps falling somewhere closer to the murder hornets in terms of my feelings of fondness for them. I will leave honeybees be, but when it comes to wasps, I'm firmly in the "I was here first and this deck ain't big enough for the both of us" camp. So, when I saw the nest, I knew what needed to be done.

Although we have a pest control company to deal with such things, I decided that even though the nest was the size of Jupiter, it was still within my ability to grab a nearby stick and knock the nest from its mount and fling it into oblivion.

Of course, these are the kinds of poor choices that cause people to wake from a coma 20 years later and say, "Well, doctor, the last thing I remember was flinging a small wasp nest into oblivion."

As I looked around for the best stick to use to fling the nest, my daughter-in-law appeared on the deck.

"Whatcha doing?" she asked.

"I'm looking for a stick to fling that wasp nest," I told her, pointing to the Jupiter-sized nest I'd discovered.

"Oh, you don't need a stick," she said. Then she hauled off and smacked the nest with the palm of her hand.


I watched with a mix of admiration and horror and waited for the nest to sail into oblivion. But it didn't sail. It didn't fling. It didn't even fall. It shook violently and then stopped.

I turned to my daughter-in-law. "Well, that didn't work," I said. "Now what?"

Suddenly, the whole nest started to buzz and as we looked down, we saw a very large, very angry-looking wasp begin to emerge.

She nodded her head matter-of-factly.



Tracy Beckerman is the author of the Amazon Bestseller "Barking at the Moon: A Story of Life, Love, and Kibble," available on Amazon and Barnes and Noble online! You can visit her at

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