Neighbors can ‘bee’ frustrating

By ROD ICE
Gazette Newspapers

Note to Readers: This is the first installment of a new column series for The Conneaut Courier. Sincere thanks to Editor Martha Sorohan for making it possible to begin an exciting new tradition, here!

Once upon a time, taking up residence in a community meant living in harmony with those who shared the soil.
For generations that inhabited our neighborhoods during the mid-twentieth century, this idea was instilled soon after birth. Basic civility was the norm. Few needed instruction in the idea of cooperating with fellow citizens. The common-sense logic that inspired this lifestyle justified its inception.
Getting along meant basic tolerance, and respect. It was a useful habit, practiced openly across the land. The notion of neighborly goodness served us well.
Until bees became part of the equation.
I considered such thoughts recently, as summer days drew to a close in the county. Our socially challenged neighbor to the west had spent the season with a colony of stinging insects building a hi-rise condominium in one of his outside walls. The nest grew frighteningly large as holiday cookouts passed. We began to fear for the safety of children that used our yards as a cut-through to a nearby playground. Our daughters avoided the green space on that side of our home, altogether.
With a good measure of willful ignorance, he simply ignored the infestation.
I reckoned on spraying the vertical hive at night. But my spouse vetoed the plan as being predicated on an illegal trespass.
Soccer Fairy, our nine-year-old, agreed.
“You can’t spank somebody else’s bees, Daddy!” she observed.
Instead, Liz took a full-page newspaper article next door, to provide information on having these wayward nests removed professionally. She reckoned that it would provide a no-cost solution for the problem.
By August, it was clear that our neighbor had decided to embrace his ignorance with conviction.
The bee swarm continued to grow!
Finally, there was action from our hermit-in-residence, after a flurry of local complaints. He plugged the hole that had served as a point of entry for his uninvited tenants. But the hastiness of this plan made him block the opening during daylight hours. This sent the colony into a frenzy of homeless agitation.
Amazingly, he had no fear of bee stings while accomplishing his project. The fellow spooned out a patch of discount-store goo with critters nearly dancing on his nose.
The entire street was astounded!
Now, the bees were circling our deck lights in the evening.
Mowing on the west side of our house became a tricky task. I wore bright clothing, and dodged the hive’s aerial maneuvering while on lawn-care patrol. .
Eventually, the swarm massed near it’s original portal in our neighbor’s abode, and began a new construction project. They were undaunted by his crude plug of caulk.
Liz cried out in disbelief. “Why didn’t they call that telephone number?”
I responded in kind. “Can’t we call it ourselves?”
She was puzzled. “I gave them the article. We don’t have the number… anyway, it’s their property!”
We had arrived at an impasse. Only one solution seemed obvious.
In September, I went into ‘Commando Mode.’
Soccer Fairy protested as I tiptoed into the falling shadows of a Friday night, with an extra-large can of bee spray.
“Mommy!” she protested, with a flip of her blonde curls. “He’s going to spank the bees!”
“Hush!” I said, cautiously. “This is important work.”
I disappeared into the darkness with purpose as my guide.
The hive was huddled along the siding, under its erstwhile front doorway. I smiled while assessing the clump of insect bodies. It provided a perfect target.
My index finger paused over the can. It was a moment of battle and glory on a civilian scale.
I crossed myself, then emptied the container of poison in a dramatic, foaming spray!
My pulse quickened with success. A mass of bees dropped to the ground, still thick with residue. The rank concoction ebbed along the siding, and filled every crack. Bee-agony was palpable in the air.
When I returned to the kitchen, Soccer Fairy was silent. She had lost interest in the raid, and turned her attention to Spongebob Squarepants.
My wife folded her arms as I poured a cup of coffee. “Are you happy now?”
“It had to be done,” I answered in a whisper. “I was protecting my homestead.”
The coffee was refreshing - with a dash of victory for good measure.
Liz stifled a giggle.
“Thanks for cleaning up this town, Sheriff Rodney!” she said.