Now I don’t know why, for we spent the bulk of the party on the back lawn or in the house.
Only those who felt compelled to find the sun were on the back lawn. Those who feared the heavy wind that was blowing headed to the house. Not to mock them, for this was the kind of wind that will whip your plate off of the table unless you have it anchored down with all of your utensils, which cannot be plastic.
In the morning when I first heard the lawn was going to be mowed, I started clearing the back lawn of toys. Every time I moved another small trike or red swimming pool over to the cement I noticed wasps around my compost – a community of them. Richard has a wasp-batter, a tool shaped like a tennis racket but lightening strikes the wasp at the same time as the wasp hits the racket, or so the directions on the package say. No matter how many times I swatted, the wasps dodged my racket. The only other solution was to move both compost bins and try to find the nest.
Richard and I worked together, Michael joining us, suitably covered with a long sleeved jacket and pants since we were in enemy territory and greatly outnumbered by them. Anyway, it is true that a morning’s planned work can be set aside, or maybe it just went astray as we battled the wasps, Richard explaining to his children, “No, we love the honey bees. They give us food. The wasps only give us stings.”
And in a nod to the Grimm’s Fairy Tale, “Seven at One Blow”, not one of the three of us got a sting.