It was appallingly hot. I stood on a high ladder, trying to paint the decorative lion’s head atop the garden folly. The ancient euonymus, once supported by the structure, had died, and now a patio would fill that generous space. The structure looked shabby, though, because it had been difficult to properly paint it before. Now, teetering high up the ladder with the gallon can perched on top, holding the brush with my right hand, I reached for the rim of the highest board to steady myself, and work.
Hold it! A hornet drifted down to park itself exactly where my lefty had almost rested. It eyed me.
It’s distinctly unsettling to be examined by a hornet while in this position. Was it alone, I wondered, or were there more? What could I do if it went for me?
Careful, Dee. No sudden moves, here.
Another joined it. Then another.
I studied the trio. The creatures had wasp waists (a Victorian lady’s dream), and C-shaped bug-eyes. All nonchalantly cleaned their antennae, but never once looked away. Hornets are inscrutable, but it felt like the insects were evaluating me.
We’ve connected before. When I was 13, I’d slammed the screen door at our Elk Lake cottage, dislodging a big nest in the roof’s overhang above the door. I was instantly blanketed in furious insects, which stung repeatedly without their bottoms coming off. (Bees have just one sting in them. Then they’re gutted trying to pull their lance out.) My mother, hearing my screams, beat them back with a broom, then spent hours swathing me in baking soda paste. When I could function again, I ran to the local library to find out more about these creatures. The information helped me curb developing, irrational fears about insects.
I still remember details:
1. Hornets won’t hesitate to defend their nest if they feel threatened. (Uh-oh. Bobbing heads would constantly mill around under it, making irresistible targets.)
2. Hornets dislike rapid movements, vibrations, or anything that threatens their flight path. (We were banging around, lugging ladders, saws, screw guns and floor planks.)
I rang pest control. The technician confirmed my suspicions. Donning a face screen he puffed some lethal powder into the long slit. Dozens of furious hornets zoomed out, aimed their stingers- then fell out of the sky, dead. I felt deeply sad. But we had to be able to sit there without fear.
Les finished screwing down the plank floor, and left for the day. I re-climbed the ladder to carry on painting. There were no hovering hornets to blame for what happened next.
Too hot and blinded by sun to continue, I gave up, grasped the paint can and prepared to climb down. Somehow the can hit the ladder rim just so, flew up out of my hand, somersaulted, then plummeted to the ground, landing right side up on the brick path. Lots of white paint followed a split second later, splashing down into the flowerbed and coating
the path. (Naturally, the Friendly Garden Club’s 30th Annual Garden Walk was the very next day. Sunnybank’s garden was on it. Gulp.)
Dumbfounded, I clung to the ladder and looked down. It took forever to grasp what had just happened – and what hadn’t.
Two thirds of that paint had opted to remain in the can, now resting peacefully on the path.
Nevertheless, the rest of the story was pretty awful. Mad as a hornet, I dug out three square feet of paint-drowned flowers, and lots of white earth and mulch, and then tried to remove the viscous puddle of paint and spatter that coated a good bit of the walkway. Lots of wipes later I threw in the towel. That gooey mess would never be erased, so, remembering the somersaulting paint can, I simply flipped the bricks over.
Wilting in late afternoon heat, I sat back and sighed. What else could possibly happen? Gull poop in the paint can, that’s what. Snarling, I scooped it out with a thick sedum leaf, -and then sat down again- on the wet brush.
#%@&*!
Fortunately, nobody witnessed my histrionic stamp-about – which produced more white footprints. Duh.
Someone once commented that there are three sorts of people: those who make things happen, those who watch things happen, and those who haven’t a clue what’s happening.
Mopping up the latest self-made outrage I had to laugh:
Been there, been there, been there.