La Nuit de les Frelons

A few nights back, the Erickson family was comfortably ensconced in our “drawing room”, when Miles pointed out some surprisingly large bumble-bee looking creatures mingling with the moths gathered at the French doors.

“Dad,” he said, “Look at those surprisingly large bumble-bee looking creatures mingling with the moths gathered at the French doors!”

Maybe that’s not what he said.

I think, in fact, he said, “Sweet Jesus, Dad! What the hell are those things?!? Damnit, this place freaks me out! When can we go home?!”

Indeed, these insects were startling – three times larger than any bee I’ve ever seen. Look at your thumb for a second. Now imagine a ¾ pound pre-historic looking winged beast, clad in black and yellow, swooping down and biting it off. That’s what I thought of, anyway.

But windows were closed, Lee was arguing that she didn’t really need to attend the third grade after all, and soon the bees were out of sight and out of mind.

On Friday, our friends Eric and Jen VanAvery came over for dinner. We had just sat down to eat (at the very French hour of 9:30pm), when Eric realized he had left his wine glass out on the patio table. He excused himself, returning a moment later with a wild look in his eyes. “Sweet Jesus, Erickson, you’ve got bugs the size of crows flying around out there. One of them nearly took my head off!”

Hmmm…

But the windows were closed (we double-checked, this time), and dinner was served, and soon the bees were out of sight and out of mind.

Come to last night, when we hosted our first true “dinner party” in the new house. (Dinner with the VanAvery’s, they being every bit as American and culture-shocked as we are, did not count as ‘entertaining’ – therapy, refuge-taking, yes – but not ‘hosting’ per se.) We were joined by our friends Jerome and Anne Marie, their daughter Jade and her boyfriend Jules, and later, by Philippe and Francoise Nallet.

My new barbeque is nothing like the one I’m used to back home, and French charcoal is quite different – so nightfall found the three men standing in the backyard, coaxing the coals to life. It was well-and-truly dark by the time the meat was on the grill, so I asked Ceil to turn on the light above the back door.

Some time had passed when I looked up and noticed the bees flying around the porch light. Philippe must have noticed them too because he exclaimed something in French – I’m not sure what it was, but from the tone, I’d guessing he said, “Sweet Jesus, you crazy American, don’t you know what those things are!?”

I said, quite casually, “Oh yes, those. We saw a few of them the other night.” Sensing Philippe and Jerome’s concern, I swallowed and added, “but there’re a quite a few more of this evening.”

Jerome is the epitome of measured-response and understatement – engineer, pilot, and husband of a Corsican fire-brand. So I was concerned when he said in his inimitable accent, “Oh, yes, Andy. These creatures are very dangerous. They are, how do you say, rather aggressive. You have them in the States, no?”

Maybe in the States – like in the Everglades – but not in Seattle.

Philippe explained that they are called “frelons” – similar to yellow-jackets, I guess. He said we needed to be very careful – “It’s important to find the nest tomorrow, and call the fire department for help in handling it. These are very bad.”

Gulp. Ok… so, we’re cooking… we’re cooking.

The women-folk, meanwhile, were absorbed indoors, Ceil wrestling the cap off a fresh bottle of gin, while leading a trans-national dialogue on the shortcomings of middle-aged, white men.

So, we’re still cooking, we’re cooking – maybe lamb doesn’t need to be medium after all – rare is good too.

The swarm around the porch light was growing, and now there were dozens of bees pressing their noses (do they have noses? fangs, perhaps) against the back door of the house. Clearly, we could not enter the house that way! But how to get out of the back yard? It’s well-fenced and the gates are all padlocked!

Miles, standing by, was beginning to regret his decision to hang out with the “men”, as we were all beginning to laugh a bit too much, a bit too nervously.

We shouted towards the house: “Ceil, can you hear me?”

“CEIL! Come to the side of the house!!”

No answer.

“CEIL!!! Hello CEIL!”

And, sure enough, she walked right up to the back door, popped it open and began to say, “Quit yer yapping! We’re trying to have a conversation!” – but she only got about half a syllable out before recoiling in horror at the bees swarming before her. She slammed the door, and began doing an odd dance, trying to avoid the bees now buzzing around the living room.

“Come to the side of the house!” we yelled.

“Sweet, Jesus, there are bees swarming around the back door!” she shouted back. “You better meet me at the side of the house!”

Good idea.

So Philippe and I, leaving Jerome at the grill to tend the last of the lamb chops, went to the side of the house and arranged lawn chairs so that we might climb over the fence. The women arrived. (Lee, shining a flashlight in my eyes, asked, “Dad, did you know that there are bees at the back door and some of them are in the house!?” Thanks honey.) We began passing the cooked meat, wine bottles, etc. over the fence.

Miles climbed over – he’s quite spry and agile when properly motivated. Jerome called out, suggesting that lamb tartar is really quite good, and that the remaining chops were plenty cooked. We pulled them off the fire, and took turns climbing over the locked gate.

What was the name of the US Ambassador to Vietnam back in ‘75 – the last guy to get on the choppers during the Fall of Saigon? That was me last night – gallant to the last, making sure my guests were safe, before tending to my needs. (“Sweet Jesus, move your French asses! Those things are coming to get me!”)

We reconvened in the foyer – all a bit sweaty and anxious. “Gee, honey… umm… why don’t we sit down and eat? Heh… heh…”

Jerome said, “Andy, you must take care of the ones in the living room, no?”

Actually, I thought, we should begin looking for a different house. Like, tonight.

“You’re right, Jerome, we should go do that.”

(I don’t know what the French equivalent is, but I bet Jerome thought to himself, “Who’s this ‘we’ you’re talking about, white man?”)

I grabbed a dust mop from the closet, and Jerome and I went into the living room. (I think Phillipe was phoning his lawyer.) We turned on the light, and the bees (seven in all, maybe more) began to land on the ceilings and the chandelier. The ceilings are very high, but with the help of the mop, I could just reach high enough– twisting the mop back and fourth to squish the first bee.

I released the pressure on the mop – but did not see the bug guts smeared across the wall – crap! I tapped the mop on the ground, and sure enough, the bee fell out, a bit dusty, but none the worse for wear. I applied a coup de grace with my right foot.

Having mastered the technique, Jerome and I found a rhythm – he playing Sancho Pancho to my Don Quixote: I trapped the bees up high and stunned them before bringing them to the floor for a rendezvous with my size 13’s – Jerome followed in behind collecting the carcasses in a dust-pan.

In five minutes, we had dispatched our foes, and we displayed the dustbin, filled with our trophies, to the women and children.

Dinner was terrific – the wine and adrenaline combined to raise our spirits. We talked about all manner of things, lingering over our meal until nearly 11pm.

As we bid our guests farewell, Jerome pointed to the window and said, “Andy, I made, beneath the window, a tombe – this is the word, yes? – a tomb for les frelons – you will see it in the morning.”

Sure enough, Jerome had made a small pile of stones over the dead bees – though when I looked this morning, I think some might have made a full recovery and flown away.

This afternoon I found the nest – a hollow tree not far from the yard. Not sure I’m up to the task of talking to the fire department, though. (What would I say? Do they really get involved in this kind of thing? Would I recognize it if someone called me a “wussy” in French?) I think I’ll stop by Brico Marché (aka Home Depot) and see if they have some spray cans or shoulder-launched missiles I can use.

The end ?