matching tracksuits

I recently reclaimed our backyard from a group of yellow jackets. In reality, they really had only taken over a small portion -- they were in the corner of the yard, and we have a big backyard:

We have big plans for the backyard, but there's so much work to do in the house that I seldom get outside to do it -- and "it" is truly overwhelming.

The backyard has been terribly neglected: the leaves probably haven't been raked in years. Trying to remedy that is how I initially discovered the yellow jackets' nest.

But I can't get outside because of all the problems inside. This week, the guest bathroom sink decided to develop a leak. Rather, three leaks. I fixed two of them, but in the process of fixing them, created the third.

The whole problem (taking all three as one larger Problem) is that whoever did the plumbing the first time had never heard of Teflon tape, hence everything was simply screwed in place and waiting for a leak.

It's indicative of this house -- most things seem to be done backwards. For instance, the insulation throughout the house is put in backwards, with the vapor barrier facing the crawl space instead of the floorboards. I can't figure out how they did that one, since the vapor barrier has "This side to living area" printed in bold every six inches or so.

But it gives me plenty of little projects...

On May 7 and 8, 1945, the Allies celebrated their victory over the Third Reich. In London, millions gathered in a near-carnival atmosphere to mark the end of a long nightmare.

While our celebrations were nearly so huge, K and I did exchange a laugh over the end of the Yellow Jacket War this weekend, after the last pockets of resistance were flushed out and destroyed.

I went down Saturday morning about nine, just before mowing, to see if I could root around with a shovel and find the nest. I'd been making daily observations at dusk the whole week and had not seen a single infantryman (infantry-wasp?) in that period. Just to be sure, I'd doused the area liberally with more wasp killer.

In short order, the tip of my shovel turned up the yellow jackets' lair...

And it was absolutely covered with yellow jackets.

The shovel fell with a thud as I sprinted for my life. Not literally, for I'm not allergic to them, but their stings do indeed burn. I soon realized that none were following. "Perhaps these are specialized workers who aren't as aggressive as those who hunt and gather -- and defend," I thought. Deciding to take a chance, I crept back down the hill in the early evening and found the nest still covered. I gave them a shot of bad medicine (you had to know that was coming at some point), ready to run. Yet none attacked.

Their mistake.

There's something perversely satisfying about holding a significant portion of your enemy's entire base in your hand...

("That looks burned," some might think. Indeed. When I brought the nest in, I noticed that there were a couple of larvae still wriggling about. "Immolation is the only sure method," I muttered -- rather, "I guess I'll have to burn these suckers" -- so I took the nest out, put it on several layers of aluminum foil in the driveway, sprinkled a few drops of gas on them...)

Of course I videoed some of the battle. Let’s hope the music is synched…

Yellowjackets like to build nests where they won't be disturbed, I read somewhere on the internet. That's a perfect description of our backyard -- a place a yellow jacket wouldn't be disturbed. Until the new owner goes out with a $40 monster rake he bought for the express purpose of dealing with the four to six inches of leaves in the backyard.

Last weekend, I was raking leaves in our backyard, a sizable space that hasn't been properly maintained for years. It's a wilderness -- in more ways than one, I found out. While raking, I felt a sudden burning sensation on my left wrist. I looked down to find a yellow jacket squirming around, getting ready to hit a second time. Of course, at the moment I didn't realize it was a yellow jacket. I stood there looking at it, thinking, "How odd. And how painful." Suddenly, in my left shoulder I felt another, then another sting. The fascination quickly subsided and I began walking away, then running when a swarm began forming around me.

Fortunately, I only got hit four times. One almost got me above the eye, but somehow I managed to evade him.

Yesterday, I decided to seek revenge. But first some precautions:

Armed with Ortho Hornet and Wasp Killer (because yellow jackets are really just wasps, and so are hornets for that matter), I approached the nest carefully, fired a test shot to the side, then attacked.

Then they attacked.

"This stuff is supposed to kill them on contact," I thought, running up the hill toward the house.

Coffee on the deck.

After such a hectic week, one of the most calming experiences of my life thus far was finally to be able to sit with wife and child on our own deck, with a forested background we own, sipping coffee.

When looking for a house, there are certain things you look for and think about and many details that just seem to disappear. Then, when you go to paint the house, you notice the details.

You notice, for instance, that a door was poorly hung and instead of fixing the problem, the installer just modified the placement of the strike plate; that all the door hardware has been painted, and that paint is now peeling; and that someone was once so lazy with painting that he didn't bother opening a window before painting it:

And all the things you want to correct (to put it mildly) grows daily. Hourly. By the second, sometimes.

I’ve been painting. Lots of it. A house of it. And it’s not done.

But I have determined what music works best with painting — that’s always critical.

Topping the list, without a doubt, was Bach’s Mass in B-minor. Bach just exudes linear symmetry and exactness — just what you need when painting.

Next: Grateful Dead’s classic American Beauty. It’s a great travel album, and maybe that has something to do with it — traveling from one corner of the room to another and back again, from one room to another and back again, from one end of the house and back again … there’s a lot of walking to painting.

For jazz, Coltrane’s A Love Supreme seemed like a good choice, but it was too intellectual (read: tiring) when painting. I found Ellington’s Piano in the Foreground to be about perfect: not too stimulating, but not overly mellow.

Bad choices:

• Mahler’s second — I love it, but I swear, too manic-depressive for work.
• Beck’s Mellow Gold — like Love Supreme it’s too busy. Odelay was better, but not much.
• Springsteen’s Ghost of Tom Joad — holy cow! You can’t be depressed while painting!

In the end, silence was actually fairly acceptable.

As of Thursday afternoon, K and I are homeowners.

And it was surprisingly easy. We'd heard so many horror stories about people buying houses -- troubles with financing, troubles with closing, troubles with the realtor, troubles with everything. We literally had no issues at all. We found the house, made an offer, waited for the counter offer, accepted the counter offer, set a date for closing, then closed the house.

I suppose it helped that the owner now lives in Nashville and was simply interested in getting rid of the house and not terribly worried about how much money he was making. He was just losing money, I guess, paying double mortgages.

So now we're slowly moving in, and the real work begins.