At this point everyone has heard about the Murder Hornet. Also known as the Asian Giant Hornet, they can grow to be two inches long, have an intensely painful sting and can decimate honeybee populations.
The Washington State Department of Agriculture verified four sightings of the massive insect in December, the first such sightings in the United States.
I know why the Murder Hornet is now in the United State. It has nothing to do with natural migration, global warming or searching for freedom. They came because word just reached Asia that my dad is no longer protecting the motherland.
Before his death a few years ago, my old man was a fearsome foe of any stinging insects. His approach to battle was fierce and highly adaptable. The tactics for solo combat did not hold when he faced a hoard of stingers.
My dad would not go looking for a fight against a solo bee, hornet or wasp. It was beneath him. As long as the bothersome buzzer quickly moved out of his airspace, my dad would turn the other cheek.
But if the insect lingered too long or got too close, my dad was going for a weapon – any weapon. Sometimes he had a garden hose in his hand and the bug suffered a preemptive squirt. Occasionally he would be ill prepared and grab a less efficient weapon like a stick or ball bat, both of which allowed you to strike from distance but lacked the wide surface area needed to ensure the delivery of a clean blow.
Being poorly armed was rarely a problem though because he always left the house armed with his most lethal critter cutlass – a ball cap. At the first vibration of a hornet wing, bald spot be damned, my dad had snapback in hand. What a hat lacks in reach it more than makes up for in control. On the rare event that he would miss the beast with his opening forehand swipe, you can be sure he would fell the creature with the backhand to follow.
Now generally a hat blow isn’t enough to kill a mature winged aggressor. Often the strike would drive the vengeful varmint into the grass, stunned but still in the fight. My father wasn’t one for letting an opponent regain composure, so he would stomp repeatedly on the insect with his navy blue, low top Chuck Taylor All Stars.
If my dad had one hole in his game when it came to single combat with bugs it was his overconfidence. At times he would employ a hat attack and hear the confirming “thud” of solid contact. If unable to spot the wriggling foe in the grass for the killing stomp, he would convince himself that he had blasted the winged warrior into outer space, or over the neighbor’s fence at the very least.
But the truth was a hard lesson, not learned until a hat is returned to the head. The vibration of a wasp wing on a bald spot would steal the heart of lesser men, but my dad would spike his lid to the Earth like he was claiming ground in the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889. He would then stomp with great fury on his own hat with the afore mentioned Chuck Taylors.
Now when the odds were not in my dad’s favor, he really showed his mettle. The discovery of an early-stage wasp nest was a call to arms. He had to gear up and this usually involved putting on a long-sleeve shirt and securing a pair of weapons, one in each hand. He had a stockpile of ready arms.
Sometimes he would use a baseball bat and a can of wasp spray. His nuanced technique was to knock the nest to the ground with the bat and then deploy an insignificant amount of chemical on it. When the wasps began to emerge, angry from being squirted, he would invariably resort to stomping ferociously on the hive and then running back to the house, in a zig zag pattern to confuse those giving chase.
He often chose to attack hives with a hose, always paired with the defensive capabilities of a trash can lid. I don’t know who told my dad wasps couldn’t swim, but the hose never worked.
The plan of attack – spray the hive with a powerful stream of water until it fell to the ground, and then spray it some more. As the freshly washed wasps emerged, he would put the trash can lid on the hive and try to smash it flat. After five minutes he would look under the lid to find the wasps still wet and alive. He would then stomp the hive aggressively and run back to the house in a zig zag pattern.
Once he tried to Don Quixote the hive with only a broom and a trash can lid. It was a flawed pairing. He jabbed the nest off the shed with the broom and then delivered a samurai chop, but the bristles were far too flimsy for adequate smashing. Also, he was taking feeble hacks with just one arm because he was still holding the useless trash can lid.
When the wasps emerged, fresh from their light brushing, they swarmed him. The trash can lid’s defensive upside was nullified by their sheer numbers. He sounded the retreat and ran back to the house in a zig zag pattern, fending off the wasps with his only worthy weapon, the trusty snapback ball hat.
I am hesitant to paint a picture of his most aggressive plan, because it should never be replicated.
In one hand, he held a can of gasoline. In the other, matches. At this point I should probably also point out that this was a night raid, holding the promise of a flaming Death Star nest and flying wasps lit ablaze like tracer rounds at the Battle of Guadalcanal.
The biggest problem with this attack, was the lack of a third hand, because he needed another weapon to knock the nest down with. He resorted to using the corner of the gas can. This detail is important because it necessitated the lid being left on, so as not to spill the gas as he walloped the hive.
With a high chance of secondary fires, my dad’s plan thankfully unraveled.
When the nest hit the ground the wasps weren’t as sleepy as my dad had hoped. They took flight enraged as the pyrotechnic exterminator was still fumbling to get the lid off the gas can. He did manage to apply a couple quick splashes of gas to the nest, but most of the enemy troops were airborne and the matches had been lost in the confusion. The only thing killed by the gas in the foray was the grass under the hive.
Dad ran back to the house, defeated, I assume in a zig zag pattern, but it was really too dark to tell.
I can share all of his battle particulars with clarity, because there is one detail I have, so far, omitted. Through all the swarmageddon, a little dump truck of a boy was standing right beside him. I was the Sancho Panza to my father’s Don Quixote. Unarmed, all I carried into battle was a hope to see my dad win, but those notions always dissolved into the wheezing of a near-asthmatic lad, always left scurrying back to the house in a zig zag pattern.
-Chad Williamson is the managing editor of the Journal-Tribune.