As a kid (and adult) Dad (Michael R Kinney) was my best friend and often partner in crime. He made problem solving fun and he was always very involved with me and my interests. I miss him! He’d be tickled to recount this with me.
When I was about 8 or 9, we moved to a brick rental house in Williamsburg, Virginia, near William and Mary College. This was the 90’s, a time before the internet took over, and I spent my summers outside like all kids used to do. Our large backyard led down to a ravine with a stream, and it became my playground, a place of endless adventure.
One of my favorite activities was catching box turtles. My dad helped me build a pen for them, complete with a pool, and at one point, I had quite a collection. We’d feed them whatever rotten food we had in the fridge—veggies, old hot dogs, you name it. Down in the ravine, I’d follow the stream for what felt like miles, pulling curious shells from the muck and proudly presenting them to my dad. He thought they might be something special, and sure enough, with help from folks at William and Mary, we discovered they were ancient fossils from a long-gone sea.
But not all my backyard adventures were so peaceful. In that yard I kept getting stung by yellowjackets. The little devils had a nest in the ground, and after one sting too many, I decided it was war. Armed with my butterfly net, I started catching and squishing them one by one. It was satisfying, but not very effective—they were too many, and I ended up with more stings than successes.
My dad, noticing my plight, came up with a plan. We’d drown them. We stuck the garden hose deep into their nest and turned on the water. Confident we’d outsmarted them, we went inside to wait. But when we returned later, we discovered the entire back of the house practically covered in angry yellowjackets. Whoops. Hindsight being 20/20, we realized the error of our ways. Clearly, they weren’t so stupid as to just sit there and drown.
Realizing our mistake, we retreated to strategize. A few days later, long after the swarm had calmed down, my dad came up with a new plan. He went to the garage and pulled out a jug which he marched to the nest and poured in what would surely do the trick – kerosene. One flick of a match, and boy, that problem was solved in a fiery poof. Only a few yellowjackets made it out, and they definitely weren’t sticking around. A job well done dad, thanks.
After that, all was well. I spent the rest of the summer stomping around, catching turtles, and using my butterfly net for butterflies as intended. The only evidence of the great yellowjacket war was a slightly charred, ankle-twister of a hole surrounded by a stubborn patch of dead grass.
