In the apocryphal tale, three-year-old Crorey was walking along in Granddaddy's yard, toddling along down the mountain. Quite suddenly, my giggle turned to scream. Everybody turned to look except Granddaddy, who knew where I was. He was already in motion.
For those of my cousins who never knew Granddaddy as anything but an old man, what happened next is improbable. But I am assured that it is true. He sprinted down the side of the mountain, hurtling logs and dodging saplings and running over anything in his path. And swooped me out of the yellow jacket nest that I had fallen into.
He picked me up and started picking the yellow jackets off one by one, ignoring the stings that he was getting while doing so.
I ended up with a few stings. He ended up with more than a hundred.
Seems as though I have spent an awful lot of my life being stung.
Four-year-old Crorey in the back yard, fascinated with the buzzing insects that seemed as attracted as he was to the sweet-smelling flowers. And I was doing some serious bee stompin'. Once I had successfully stomped bees one day, I did it again the next. Eventually, I got stung.
Tearfully, I asked why the bee had stung me. Mom explained to my bewildered four-year-old self that bees do not like being stomped. And that they protect themselves by stinging.
And if I am going to go bee stomping, that shoes are a must.
Episode 1 from abroad: Fast forward to a 9-year-old, bored out of his mind, stuck in French Guyana for an unexpected week. Not remembering his lesson taught earlier in that decade, my 9-year old self is chucking rocks at a small (tennis-ball sized) paper nest that was surrounded by increasingly agitated black flies.
Sweet success! The fifth rock hit the hornets' nest squarely, and I watched with glee as the 'flies' flew away from the now-exploded nest.
Ow!
For those of my cousins who never knew Granddaddy as anything but an old man, what happened next is improbable. But I am assured that it is true. He sprinted down the side of the mountain, hurtling logs and dodging saplings and running over anything in his path. And swooped me out of the yellow jacket nest that I had fallen into.
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| What bee could possibly sting that face? |
He picked me up and started picking the yellow jackets off one by one, ignoring the stings that he was getting while doing so.
I ended up with a few stings. He ended up with more than a hundred.
Seems as though I have spent an awful lot of my life being stung.
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| Abelia Hedge was the plant that surrounded my house. |
Tearfully, I asked why the bee had stung me. Mom explained to my bewildered four-year-old self that bees do not like being stomped. And that they protect themselves by stinging.
And if I am going to go bee stomping, that shoes are a must.
Episode 1 from abroad: Fast forward to a 9-year-old, bored out of his mind, stuck in French Guyana for an unexpected week. Not remembering his lesson taught earlier in that decade, my 9-year old self is chucking rocks at a small (tennis-ball sized) paper nest that was surrounded by increasingly agitated black flies.
Sweet success! The fifth rock hit the hornets' nest squarely, and I watched with glee as the 'flies' flew away from the now-exploded nest.
Ow!
