The Wasp Nest

 

Wasps on their nest.
Wasps on their nest.

We were barning Burley tobacco on William Shelton’s farm near Walnut, 26 miles northwest of Asheville, N.C., when Herb Porter spotted a wasp nest hanging from the roof of the tobacco barn, a big nest, big as a man’s hand.

This isn't Herb Porter, but this is the way you hang Burley tobacco.
This isn’t Herb Porter, or me, but this is the way you hang Burley tobacco.

  Herb was standing spread eagle on two rows of logs, one boot on one log, one boot on the other. The logs were about three feet apart, wide enough to accommodate the sticks of tobacco stalks we were hanging.

He was way up there, at the top of barn.  Fall from there and you’re going to get hurt real bad.

I was standing spread eagle on logs further down, taking sticks of tobacco from Herb’s brother-in-law, Alfie Shelton, who was standing in the bed of the truck, and handing them on up to Herb. When I heard Herb say “wasp nest,” I scrambled down fast as I could. I went over the barn door, ready to run. But Herb just stood there, spread eagle, not three feet from a nest covered with those black and yellow devils.

Pat and Mark Stith, L to R, and Herbie and Herb Porter
Pat and Mark Stith, L to R, and Herbie and Herb Porter, on the wasp weekend.

“Alfie,” he said, “get me a cup of No. 2 fuel oil.”

Herb stayed right where he was while Alfie pumped No. 2 fuel oil out of a drum stored in the barn. They had done this before. When Alfie had enough he climbed up two or three tiers of logs, and handed the cup to Herb.

Without hesitating Herb threw the fuel oil all over that nest and wasps began raining down onto the barn’s dirt floor, dead.  He killed them all.

And then Herb dropped the empty cup and told me to hand him another stick of tobacco. Time to get back to work.

Coming Monday: It’s A Good Life

Everything Is Relative

USS Los Angeles at anchor in Hong Kong one year later, by artist Wayne Scarpaci.
USS Los Angeles at anchor in Hong Kong one year later, by artist Wayne Scarpaci.

When my ship, USS Los Angeles (CA-135), dropped anchor in Victoria Bay, Hong Kong, in late 1961 our captain allowed several Chinese men to come on board at meal time to glean food from our trays.

When we finished eating we would hand our food trays to one of the foreigners and they would rake our scraps into one of several garbage cans. Uneaten mashed potatoes, for example, were saved in one garbage can, uneaten beans in another, bread went into a third can, and so forth.

They were not saving our scraps to feed hogs. If that were the case, all the leftovers would have been raked into the same garbage can.

No, they were going to serve our scraps to people.

And now? Thousands of poor people in Hong Kong love in wire cage homes.
And now? Thousands of poor people in Hong Kong live in wire cage homes.

The federal “poverty level” for a family of three in the United States in 2017 is $20,420.  And, yes, don’t tell me, I know: renting a decent place to live, keeping the lights and heat on, buying clothes, paying the bills for a family of three on that kind of money, or less, is tough duty.

But when I see a U.S. “poverty level” number like that I can’t help but think about a family I saw in Hong Kong, near the dock where I boarded a tender to return to my ship, anchored in the bay.

It was nighttime and I walked past a woman with two small children.  I saw her lie down on a piece of cardboard on the sidewalk, a child on each side, and pull a second piece of cardboard on top of them, for a blanket.

That’s poverty.

NOTE: A regret I still have: I went on liberty several times in Hong Kong and I saw a lot of poverty, all of which I just walked past.

Coming Friday: The Wasp Nest