While visiting this evening after our sabbath dinner, we got on to sleep stories, and I was reminded of a good one that happened to us years ago — back in our E street days, not that this means anything to you all. But I digress . . .
I was sleeping soundly one night, as is my wont, and I was awakened suddenly because I was — try to guess now — stung by a bee. I jumped out of bed, natcherly, with any and all appropriate whooping — don’t know, don’t remember that part. Anyhow, we hunted around and apart from the bee there was nothing unusual. Went back to bed.
The next night — don’t remember exactly again — I was either stung again, or we were awakened by another bee flying around. This was just creepy. At some point during these troubled times, Nancy found a honking huge bee on our hearth.
We spent that second night in the living room, and were by now highly motivated to figure it out. We may have called an exterminator, but as it happened we were able to solve the problem before we had everything fumigated.
Years before, Nancy’s dad had built a small wooden patio table, with legs that screwed in. We had unscrewed them all, and brought the table inside for the winter, and stored it, again natcherly, under the bed. When we were doing our really thorough hunt for the source of our bee troubles, I reached under the bed and hauled out one of the legs. Imagine my surprise when I felt that table leg humming and vibrating in my hand. I was holding a piece of wood that was just crammed full of carpenter bees, all of which we had thoughtfully decided to bring inside for the winter and keep under our bed.
Don’t do that would be my counsel.