Hunting Wasps

We're once again renting Frog Farm, the house in Litchfield, Conn., that we've rented twice before. The wasps have been very busy since our rental started a couple of weeks ago, and Adam has fought them nonstop. He has put blue tape over holes in the table on the terrace, in order to lock inside the wasps that have colonized it; he has sprayed poison in the living room windows, where we've watched countless wasps carry in pale green baby grasshopper corpses. But the table by the pool terrace has been a conundrum, because the wasp's nest—growing larger every day—is tucked under the table, where it would be hard to spray without putting oneself in a rather vulnerable position. I have been in a bit of trouble for not wanting to talk about the problem at length, and not just because my suggestion to throw the table in the pool was nixed because the glass top could shatter. I'm taking a more pacifist stance; if I'm not going to kill the Japanese beetles that are gorging themselves on the garden, then why should I draw the line on this side of wasps?

It appears, however, that I should start paying attention.

Adam: I think I've solved the wasp problem by the pool. We can drive the car out at night, and use a string to pull the table over, dislodging the nest.

Me: [Pause.] What about the glass?

Adam: We can use the lounge chair cushions to break the fall!

[Later]

Adam: I wasn't suggesting we tie the table to the car. We can leave the window open a tiny crack and pull the table over ourselves.

Comments

[Adam]

Killed 'um all, no regrets.