ORILLIA – Killer bees are dumb.
That was the gist of a CBC Radio report that reaffirmed my belief in the value of a publicly funded news service, because, really, when was the last time a privately run broadcaster ran a story about dim-bulb insects that murder.
Unfortunately, the report listeners didn’t hear but should have would be titled, “Killer bees may be dumb as doorknobs, but wasps are ridiculously smart. Also they are super resilient and will not die even if your father, normally a highly trusted source, tells you the park ranger has destroyed them.”
I know this to be true because of a childhood experience involving a campground, a comfort station and a nest of angry yellowjackets that attacked the Matys brothers many summers ago.
Our family was spending part of the holiday at a provincial park outside Huntsville when Tyler and I found ourselves the victims of a now legendary swarming that Hollywood is said to be optioning under the working title, “Attack of the Devious Wasps Who Will Not Die Because They Are Totally Evil And May Even Be Responsible for Global Warming.”
If memory serves, the Matys boys were dressed in the style of the day, which meant t-shirts with wide horizontal stripes, jean shorts and black socks up to our knees.
Life was good.
“I have to hit the can,” one of us must have said.
The walk from our campsite to the comfort station – a fancy term for bathroom – led us along a dirt path shrouded by trees.
Blinking eyes of unknown origin peered out from the darkness, and foreign-sounding noises abounded.
The foreign sounds soon included two boys crying for their mommy because clouds of wasps were stinging their legs.
Life was not so good anymore, and, with his boys in tears, dad had park staff come by to destroy the subterranean nest.
My father – determined that his sons would not spend the rest of their lives running scared from insects – then did what any well-meaning parent would.
“Let’s go back to the trail,” I remember him saying with a tone of confidence children associate with Saturday morning superheroes. “I want to show you that those wasps will never sting you again.”
Dad was employing the classic if-life-gives-you-a-lemon-get-back-on-your-horse method of encouragement.
Wary but trusting, we followed.
“See,” he exclaimed with a smile. “Nothing to worry about.”
Which is when the tiny buggers re-emerged from the ground, stronger, faster and meaner.
Campers reported hearing our screams from as far away as the lake, where frightened loons and geese collided in an attempt to escape the noise.
I don’t recall whether my father suffered a sting, because I was pre-occupied with swatting wildly at the air and wailing for mercy.
(The incident proved more painful than my excruciating zipper-snag of 1976. For the sake of discretion, the injured appendage shall remain nameless.)
As a mature adult who can now view these moments with the benefit of hindsight, I understand dad meant no harm and would never knowingly have subjected us to a second wasp attack because that would have resulted in my mother asking him what he was thinking.
The moral of the story is, if life hands you a swarm of stinging yellow jackets, jump back on your horse and ride the other way.
fmatys@simcoe.com
