St. Margaret of Scotland Church near Whycocomagh
After I posted the last waspish blog I received an email from one of my blog followers. I do appreciate my blog readers. I surely do!
Anyway, this individual, who’s a lover of nature and a passionate battler against invasive plants, was working in the woods. While hard at work, she, without premeditation or evil intent, did perform a home invasion.
She stepped on a wasp nest and they responded as you’d expect they would. They swarmed her and she was stung many, many times. Enough stings to force her into a hospital’s emergency room. I hope she’s feeling better.
I know wasps are not to be played with. They can be mean and I almost feel partially responsible for the woman’s nasty encounter, as I’d not exterminated my yard’s wasp community. Maybe I felt like I was colluding with the enemy.
However, I can report that I have not been stung by my neighbourhood wasps. They’ve caused me no problems.
I mean, there was their nest, under the ladder, which was leaning against the wood shed. And there I was, drinking a cola or a beer, while sitting in the woodshed around the corner from the nest. They were only a few feet away. Probably drooling over what I was pouring down my throat.
And I can say, without a word of a lie, that I saw no more than a total of ten wasps enter my woodshed. The whole summer. And they only buzzed me and my drink and then flew away. They were a very decent bunch.
Maybe they believed it’s best to be in good standing with their neighbours. Or maybe, in some mysterious way, they understood that I meant them no harm. That I had gone out of my way to make them an important part of my world. Who knows?
Anyway, this individual, who’s a lover of nature and a passionate battler against invasive plants, was working in the woods. While hard at work, she, without premeditation or evil intent, did perform a home invasion.
She stepped on a wasp nest and they responded as you’d expect they would. They swarmed her and she was stung many, many times. Enough stings to force her into a hospital’s emergency room. I hope she’s feeling better.
I know wasps are not to be played with. They can be mean and I almost feel partially responsible for the woman’s nasty encounter, as I’d not exterminated my yard’s wasp community. Maybe I felt like I was colluding with the enemy.
However, I can report that I have not been stung by my neighbourhood wasps. They’ve caused me no problems.
I mean, there was their nest, under the ladder, which was leaning against the wood shed. And there I was, drinking a cola or a beer, while sitting in the woodshed around the corner from the nest. They were only a few feet away. Probably drooling over what I was pouring down my throat.
And I can say, without a word of a lie, that I saw no more than a total of ten wasps enter my woodshed. The whole summer. And they only buzzed me and my drink and then flew away. They were a very decent bunch.
Maybe they believed it’s best to be in good standing with their neighbours. Or maybe, in some mysterious way, they understood that I meant them no harm. That I had gone out of my way to make them an important part of my world. Who knows?
Cape Breton Storm Damage
However, disaster struck. On Thanksgiving weekend, Hurricane Mathew caused major disruptions and part of Cape Breton had to declare an emergency. We missed the worst, because we were safely tucked away in a Halifax motel, but when we got home, I found the ladder lying on the ground and the wasps’ nest torn open.
“How can we apply the energy, the creativity, the knowledge, the vision we know to be in literature to the human-made problems ecology tells us are destroying the biosphere which is our home?”
William Rueckert
I’m going to have to do some research. Where did the wasps go? Are they all dead? Is there a hive of poor, immigrant wasps desperately looking for a new home?
I say, “Build a wall. Compassion be damned. They’re as mean as fuck. They are horrible, horrible insects. They are very, very bad. Make our neighbourhood strong again.”
I’ve been watching too much politics. Can you tell?
One thing I did notice. It was my reaction to the nest being destroyed by the hurricane. I felt sad and empathetic toward the wasps and I actually brought a piece of the nest into the trailer. We were both amazed at how perfect its structure is. A work of art.
Our Wasps' Work of Art
So, maybe, if I’m charitable and considerate of living organisms, I will feel more sadness at their misfortune than if I didn’t make the effort to be kind and tolerant. In this case, I had treated the wasps in a humane way and not in a blind, jerk reaction way.
Also, I’d worried about what I was going to do with the nest once winter came. After all, I hadn't bought an aluminum step-ladder just for wasps to set up a condo development.
No worries. Mother Nature to the rescue.
Also, I’d worried about what I was going to do with the nest once winter came. After all, I hadn't bought an aluminum step-ladder just for wasps to set up a condo development.
No worries. Mother Nature to the rescue.
***
Abstract of ground near a Cape Breton Cave
Only in Cape Breton, the strange, deceptively canny island which dangles off the end of Nova Scotia and keeps the province from tipping back on its busy mainland ass.
That said, my story begins on one sunny day when I grabbed a drink and made for the tiny house not far from our place. Nobody lives in the house, but we know that it is owned by a little old lady who now lives in town. For years, I’ve anonymously cut the grass in the front and back of this little house.
Then, a few years ago, a relative of the owner was working around the house and happened to mention to me that somebody had been cutting the grass and he was wondering who. I told him it was me.
As a result, I now have a nice little porch to sit on, which gives me a view of the road as well as a large field which backs onto a beautiful clump of gloriously coloured mountains.
That said, my story begins on one sunny day when I grabbed a drink and made for the tiny house not far from our place. Nobody lives in the house, but we know that it is owned by a little old lady who now lives in town. For years, I’ve anonymously cut the grass in the front and back of this little house.
Then, a few years ago, a relative of the owner was working around the house and happened to mention to me that somebody had been cutting the grass and he was wondering who. I told him it was me.
As a result, I now have a nice little porch to sit on, which gives me a view of the road as well as a large field which backs onto a beautiful clump of gloriously coloured mountains.
One day, as I planned to visit the little house, I’d had an inclination I should bring my camera with me. I thought I might see something interesting. I often listen to that little voice which regularly whispers advice through my chaotic and logical brain noise. This tiny voice is very, very humble and usually very, very accurate.
However, I didn’t take my camera, but I did sit on the little porch and enjoyed the thoughts I often get when I sit there.
Suddenly, I heard a sound. At first it sounded like a bird calling from down the road. Mind you, no bird I’ve ever heard. Well then, maybe it was an animal. A small animal, and as I put down my drink and stood up, I realized it was closer than I had thought.
The sound seemed to be coming from behind me, so I walked to the deck railing. I looked at the little shed and realized the sound was even closer and when I looked down I saw the originator of the pitiful cries.
It was a very small black and white kitten who looked like a baby Sylvester. (The funny Looney Tune’s cat.) You know, the little cat who used to say, “I’m so ashamed of you, father.” This being said when his father kept coming back looking all beaten up after he’d had a fight with a big mouse. Which was actually a kangaroo.
The little kitten’s pitiful meows nearly broke my heart. Especially since I knew we couldn’t keep him. We have no room at the inn. Honestly, and Buster is a trained kitty cat chaser. We could get around that, though. It’s just we have no room for the kitty litter box. We are that cramped. No guff.
I put the kitten into a laundry basket which has been sitting on the old lady’s porch for eons. I then walked over to our trailer and got Sue. I knew she would have some ideas.
She walked back with me and her heart was also instantly crushed. Sue carried him home in her arms and the kitten stopped crying. So sad, and I’m so sorry if I’m making all my readers tear up.
What were we going to do?
However, I didn’t take my camera, but I did sit on the little porch and enjoyed the thoughts I often get when I sit there.
Suddenly, I heard a sound. At first it sounded like a bird calling from down the road. Mind you, no bird I’ve ever heard. Well then, maybe it was an animal. A small animal, and as I put down my drink and stood up, I realized it was closer than I had thought.
The sound seemed to be coming from behind me, so I walked to the deck railing. I looked at the little shed and realized the sound was even closer and when I looked down I saw the originator of the pitiful cries.
It was a very small black and white kitten who looked like a baby Sylvester. (The funny Looney Tune’s cat.) You know, the little cat who used to say, “I’m so ashamed of you, father.” This being said when his father kept coming back looking all beaten up after he’d had a fight with a big mouse. Which was actually a kangaroo.
The little kitten’s pitiful meows nearly broke my heart. Especially since I knew we couldn’t keep him. We have no room at the inn. Honestly, and Buster is a trained kitty cat chaser. We could get around that, though. It’s just we have no room for the kitty litter box. We are that cramped. No guff.
I put the kitten into a laundry basket which has been sitting on the old lady’s porch for eons. I then walked over to our trailer and got Sue. I knew she would have some ideas.
She walked back with me and her heart was also instantly crushed. Sue carried him home in her arms and the kitten stopped crying. So sad, and I’m so sorry if I’m making all my readers tear up.
What were we going to do?
Buster, Deep in Thought
Well first off, we phoned a fella who lives on a farm. He told us he couldn’t take the kitten. They have six dogs and maybe more cats. He gave us a name to call.
We phoned that number.
That person gave us a name. No number, just a name. So, I looked up the last name in the phone book and found one phone number with the right initial and last name.
What luck! We called that number, explained the situation, and they said they’d come over.
About two hours later they showed up. We chatted quite a while about other topics and then, finally, I fetched the little cat. Who was sound asleep on an old cushion I‘d put inside a box. I’d put the box inside my old truck which I call ‘Basque’.
So, I woke the kitten up and carried him or her to the car. The woman instantly fell under the kitten’s charm.
Then her husband asked us how we got their name.
Please note, I’m changing the names to protect the innocent.
I said, “Brenda McNeil gave us the name Denise Smith. So I found D. Smith in the phone book and phoned you. It was the only number that we figured could be Denise Smith’s.”
They both gave us a mini-shocked look and then the D. Smith woman said, “My name is Dana Smith.”
Whoops! Wrong person. But only in Cape Breton. Because even though we phoned the wrong person, we didn’t phone the wrong person. See what I mean? They took the kitten. These things happen here all the time. ‘Only in Cape Breton’.
And here is a further kicker.
We phoned that number.
That person gave us a name. No number, just a name. So, I looked up the last name in the phone book and found one phone number with the right initial and last name.
What luck! We called that number, explained the situation, and they said they’d come over.
About two hours later they showed up. We chatted quite a while about other topics and then, finally, I fetched the little cat. Who was sound asleep on an old cushion I‘d put inside a box. I’d put the box inside my old truck which I call ‘Basque’.
So, I woke the kitten up and carried him or her to the car. The woman instantly fell under the kitten’s charm.
Then her husband asked us how we got their name.
Please note, I’m changing the names to protect the innocent.
I said, “Brenda McNeil gave us the name Denise Smith. So I found D. Smith in the phone book and phoned you. It was the only number that we figured could be Denise Smith’s.”
They both gave us a mini-shocked look and then the D. Smith woman said, “My name is Dana Smith.”
Whoops! Wrong person. But only in Cape Breton. Because even though we phoned the wrong person, we didn’t phone the wrong person. See what I mean? They took the kitten. These things happen here all the time. ‘Only in Cape Breton’.
And here is a further kicker.
Buster Longing for Wings
We often walk Buster down the road towards the Cabot Trail. Well, the next day, after successfully finding a home for the poor little kitten, Sue, Buster and I did spot them.
Spot what, you ask?
Spotted a litter of tiny little kittens on our neighbour’s porch. Some looking like baby Sylvesters.
Whoops, only in Cape Breton!
Spot what, you ask?
Spotted a litter of tiny little kittens on our neighbour’s porch. Some looking like baby Sylvesters.
Whoops, only in Cape Breton!
This skull was in our woods...who knows why...but the squirrel likes it...!
