By JEFERSON WEAVER
Staff writer

I love spring hunting season.

With much anticipation, I sit quietly on my stand, arms tense, weapon ready, hearing the whir of wings as the target comes toward me. I measure the angle, adjust my grip, aim, take a breath, let half of it out, and –
WHACK!

Another carpenter bee bites the dust.

I take another sip of coffee, reload my badminton racquet, and wait for the next victim.

If I did not live in a century-plus old house, I might be a little more tolerant of carpenter bees. As it is, I feel about them like many American voters feel about their choices for president – disgust, with a bit of loathing.

But the little channel-chewers are as much a part of spring as their more beneficial and benevolent cousins. While I know people who run screaming at the sight of a honeybee or a bumblebee, I happen to like those two species. I am far more likely to try to encourage those two respectable families of pollen-hunters than I am to reach for a can of bug spray.

My beloved Miss Rhonda, that saver of turtles, rescuer of puppies and kittens, and whisperer of possums, really shows her dark side when the carpenter bees begin buzzing. She feared them at first, until discovering they don’t sting, and as best as we can tell, are one of those “punishment” species God put on the earth when He decided Adam needed to work for a living.

Hence, for my gentle, loving wife, carpenter bees are viewed as a good way to practice one’s hand-eye coordination. Had she been able to channel that energy and violent swinging style into a tennis career, she could have been a professional. Not that she likes the sport, but other people would be scared to be on the court with her. She even grunts and yells when she swings.

Miss Rhonda is more of an active bug-hunter than her husband; she will stalk the things like someone on safari, whereas I prefer to lounge comfortably and wait for the bees to come to me.

Years ago, I used to shoot carpenter bees; a badly disturbed friend taught me that chasing carpenter bees with a .22 rifle full of ratshot was great practice for quail season. Like with any hunting experience, one should always practice safety; my friend was rudely reminded of this once when he fired at a bee that happened to be passing a large paper-hornet nest.

The full load of ratshot hit the nest, and after several seconds of consultation, the hornets decided my friend must die.

He managed to take out three or four of the hornets before fleeing for safety, but he did not escape unscathed.

I consoled him that shooting that well whilst under attack by angry hornets was quite an accomplishment. He demurred, pointing out that when there’s a solid wall of hornets chasing you, it’s hard not to hit something if you pump enough lead downrange.

Of course, spring means the arrival of other bugs as well; the fire ants have been at work since the temperature rose above freezing, at least in my yard. Having never found a proper load for shooting fire ants, and not enamored at the idea of pumping my yard full of chemicals, I leave the fire ants to my chickens and the hog.

Yes, Sam the Pig eats fire ants. He will squeal and fuss when they bite his nose, and the resultant craters can swallow a small car, but by cracky, when Sam’s at work, there are no fire ants.

The chickens are a little less efficient, but they cheerfully clean up an ant colony if nothing distracts them. Since air is particularly distracting to my chickens, the hog does a better job.

Regrettably, we have no more guinea fowl. Whilst guineas are the greatest fire ant eradicators in existence, they have a distressing tendency to fly into the dog pen. My dogs, by the way, are almost as efficient at eradicating barnyard birds as guineas are at eating fire ants. Considering the way Miss Rhonda felt about the guineas’ incessant squawking (which is music to my ears) I have often suspected her of encouraging the guineas to fly into the dog pen. While she has no love of fire ants, she never had much love for my guineas, either.

Then there are the other bugs of spring – flies (favored by our baby turkeys), ticks (another chicken favorite) and yellow flies (which none of my birds like to eat).

Like an army that spent the winter resting for a major offensive in the spring, the mosquitoes arose en masse at our house last week. For several hours a day, we must barricade the doors and windows, re-caulk the walls, cover the roof in plastic, and coat ourselves in bug-repellent. I might be exaggerating just a little, but you get the idea. The mosquitoes apparently decided that since they took last year off for the drought, they need to make up for lost blood.

Anyone who laughs at the saying a buglight is high entertainment has never lived between a Carolina bay and the Cape Fear River.

And if they don’t like the buglight, they should watch my wife whirling around in circles, tobacco stick slashing like a Scottish broadsword, lashing out at the bugs of spring.

– Weaver is a staff writer at the News Reporter. He may be reached by telephone at 642-4104, ext. 227, or via email at jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.