Kindra was watering plants on the front porch and turned the hose onto her Purple Heart, which is a leafy plant in a three-foot tall pot that looks like a pedestal.
As soon as the water hit the leaves, a small brown bird rocketed out of the plant and took off like a turpentined cat, as they used to say.
That was an odd thing, for a bird to be take shelter in a plant in a pot on the porch. There is a lot of daily traffic less than two feet from the plant and it seemed unusual for a bird to spend its quiet time with people so near.
Even odder, close inspection showed the bird had built a nest and laid at least three eggs, each the size of a malted milk ball.
Kindra apologized to the bird – and I mean that literally. “I’m sorry, bird!” she called as the bird flew over the fence into the back yard.
Later, yonder bird was back in the nest, its wings fluffed over the eggs and its eyes showing like black dots through the leaves.
Since then, we have left the plant and the nest undisturbed and have found a way to water the Purple Heart from the back side. One of these days, maybe we’ll hear the chirping of little mouths.
I’m not much of a birder, but I’ll go out on a limb (snort, chuckle) and say this one is a sparrow. We didn’t get much of a glimpse at it as it flew away, so I’m open to a more accurate ID, should we get a better look.
We hoped its partner would join it, so that we could try to trade them for one in the hand, but no such luck.
Two days later, I opened the door from our bedroom to the back porch and – wait! What is that brown thing hanging from the door frame a foot and a half from my head? Why, it’s a red wasp’s nest, that’s what it is. And there are red wasps crawling on it.
I shut the door more quickly than I had opened it, and immediately went in search of a can of wasp killer.
Red wasps are foul-tempered creatures and their sting is way worse than a yellowjacket’s, I have found. The last time one stung me was during Reagan’s first term, and I would very much like to keep it that way.
So I quietly slipped around the other side, spray can in hand, and expended all ordnance, as they used to say in the Air Force. Emptied the can, in layman’s terms.
Funny thing about killing wasps. The rush is so strong, it’s hard to stop after you get going.
The wasps are dead now and the world is a better place.
But I can’t keep from thinking: The bird in the nest on the front porch gets gentle, preferred treatment and the wasps on the nest on the back porch get their faces sprayed with pyrethrins.
Both are trying to propagate their species, but meet different reactions from the nearby humans.
Doesn’t seem entirely fair, and I have tried to feel bad about fate dealing the wasps such a crummy hand and my part in carrying it out.
So far I haven’t been able to.