Aug 5, 2008 By James Pletcher 4 min read

They are even in my dreams. I don’t like bees or wasps, and I particularly loathe yellow jackets.

Why? They are stinging insects and each species has pained and aggravated me at one time or another.

We hosted all three at our former home in the mountains east of Uniontown. The bees weren’t too bad and pretty much left me alone. I think I was stung once. But the wasps and yellow jackets regularly assaulted me, usually when I was trying to make some repair, accomplish some outside task or perform some kind of maintenance.

Once, when painting the front porch deck, I inadvertently disturbed a small wasp nest. The bugs came out like jet planes leaving an aircraft carrier. Diving at me, I dodged and weaved to avoid their malicious stings only to find myself stepping in and slipping over my freshly painted deck. I know I had to look like Curly from the Three Stooges. They hit me in my arm, two painful injuries that quickly swelled, hurting and itching for days.

But for all their malice, I consider wasps the pussycats of stinging bugs compared to their cousins, yellow jackets.

Yellow jackets, or what some call ground bees since they are colored with yellow and black markings like their larger cousins, are vicious beyond belief, like the mad dogs of bugdom.

My first experience with them was on a comfortable summer eve. Clothed in blue jeans and short-sleeved shirt, I was mowing the lawn when I felt the first sting in the back of my leg, causing me to leap like someone who just stepped on a needle in his bare feet. Looking in every direction, I saw nothing that would cause such discomfort. I continued pushing the mower and promptly felt two more stings, one in my rear and another on my bare arm.

I ran to the other side of the yard only to see tiny flying things chasing me. Ducking to another corner of the yard I hid behind a tree.

I didn’t know which part of the experience was worse: Feeling foolish because I was running from something smaller than a pea or the pain and swelling around each bite. They must have some kind of nuclear stinger because they hit me through the thickness of heavy denim.

Discovering their nest, I blitzed it with a whole can of insecticide, watching as the diabolic devils fell dead to Earth. From that time on I learned to hate them but also respect what they can do.

But when they attacked my lovely wife one summer at our home here in the city, I didn’t hesitate to find the source and then head to the nearest home supply store for armaments.

I bought a poison specific to yellow jackets and wasps. Not content with just following the instructions, I launched an Internet search for more information, finding one Web site that advised the best time of day to eradicate the menace.

I had two choices: just after dusk or just before sunrise. In either case, the yellow jackets should have been at rest. But it also meant locating their nest in darkness. I opted for the just after dusk treatment. I hate the critters but not enough to crawl out of bed before daylight.

Using the smallest flashlight I owned, I crept upon the site, killer spray in my outstretched hand and thumb lightly resting on the release button. There was movement at ground level. There wasn’t supposed to be movement. They were supposed to be sleeping. Maybe these were the nest’s late-night party goers coming home from an all-nighter. Too bad for them. I focused flashlight beam on the two or three yellow bodies floating in the air above the nest’s entrance. I fired, hitting each one with a stream of white, poisonous foam and then emptying the can into the hole as others tried to flee.

Cautiously approaching the battlefield the next morning I observed a square-foot area littered with the remains of the pernicious colony.

About two nights after I dreamt there was another, larger nest in our yard in about the same location as the one I destroyed. I awoke just as they launched their assault.

Was that dream the result of a guilty conscience? Perhaps. Admittedly, I felt some remorse. I don’t like to kill things. But we do what we have to do.

Besides, I’m too large a target and we don’t have any trees in our yard big enough for me to hide behind.

So, in closing, I say, “Bee-ware.’

Sorry, I couldn’t resist.

Have a good day.

James Pletcher Jr. is Herald-Standard business editor. He can be reached at 724-439-7571 or by e-mail at jpletcher@heraldstandard.com.