Lenawee Smiles: Empty nest was beautiful until it wasn't

Didn’t I read that stinging creatures are quite fond of going after fair-skinned people with light eyes? Or did I just make that up to fit the circumstances.

It seemed that one of our visitors was being attacked by a few wasps.

Those same testy individuals were also taking out their spite on the great guy who takes care of tree trimming and other jobs around the place. It seemed they could hear his truck approaching from three miles away and were waiting for him to emerge from it.

Once he had gotten his tools out of the truck and was basically helpless, squadrons of  bugs from Wasp Air Force One would take off from the magnolia tree, circle the house to get into position and go after him. I saw him outside one morning and just thought he was practicing his salsa moves.

Daughter the Elder started complaining about the wasps and their nest in the magnolia tree. Daughter the Younger said she would get a wasp gun to dispatch them and get rid of the nest.

I overhead this. I hate the idea of killing anything, but it was clear that one of those guys might sting someone with bad allergies. A few days later, the wasp population in that nest was gone.

I’d seen this magnificent nest. It was a beautiful feat of nature. I wondered how long it had taken to make it. It was as delicate as tissue paper. Layer upon layer of grays, beiges and whites made up this wasp house with its three openings. They had woven it over three small branches. Unless you were looking for it, you could not have found it. It was about 8 by 6 inches in size and more round than anything else.

“OK, I’ve sprayed, and I think all the wasps are dead,” D the Y said one evening at dusk. “I’ll take out the nest and throw it away.”

“No,” I yelled, “I want it.”

I was in another room, but I could hear the looks passing between my daughters: “She wants the nest….”

“Why?” one of them called back.

“Because it is a work of nature … it is a piece of art.”

“It is a piece of trash. I should throw it out.”

“Just put it on the back porch.”

Every day I would go out and look at it. I admired its colors and the effort it took to make it. I carefully shook it to eject any deceased wasps.

A few days passed. Every so often, one of my offspring would complain, “You really want this thing? Why? What are you going to do with it?”

I thought to my martyred self, “I ask for very little. Miniature cupcakes every two weeks. Bob Evans family-sized mashed potatoes. And the wasps’ nest.” I sighed.

“I just want it. I want to save it because it is beautiful.”

Silence.

“I will find a case for it and keep it in my office.”

More silence.

There is not much you cannot find online if you are determined enough and do not fall asleep after searching for six days straight without nodding off. I finally located what I was looking for: a clear plastic box with a hinged lid.

For $37.99, including shipping and handling, I could have what I wanted: a nest for the wasps’ nest. I quickly hit the “Place Order” button.

A few anxious days later, a flat package arrived. This box had to be assembled. The picture directions were in Chinese. I handed it all to Daughter the Younger suggesting that since I had given her life, she owed me the assembling of the box.

She put it together, and I carefully lowered the nest into it and closed the lid.

Yesterday, Daughter the Elder came into my office and announced, “Something smells funny in here.” It is a well-known fact that she could stand in Jakarta in a monsoon and sniff out truffles in France. I turned to see her raise the lid of the nest’s nest.

“Dear God — it is rotting.” She exited at the speed of a Lamborghini Gallardo.

This morning, I furtively opened the box and nearly fainted. My nest was now the malevolent “Chucky” of nature.

“Get this smell out of my nose,” I cried as I flew from my office. I think odor can solidify inside you if it isn’t removed promptly.

Even though Daughters the Elder and Younger were within 12 feet of me, they pretended not to notice my distress. I know they were smirking.

Susan Keezer lives in Adrian. Send your good news to her at lenaweesmiles@gmail.com. 

This article originally appeared on The Daily Telegram: Susan Keezer: Empty nest was beautiful until it wasn't