Fall-Winter 2006
Nick and the Hornets' Nest
Darsha Primich
Copyright © 2006 Darsha Primich. All rights reserved.
When my neighbor Nick first spots the nest, it’s hidden on the lower branches of the crabapple tree. He asks what it is and believes me when I give him my best guess: a paper wasp nest. But then he asks me to tell him more. What is it made of? When will it be finished? How many bugs live in it? And, most intriguing of all, is it dangerous? Can it maim or kill? How close can he get to it to have a really good look? Can I please get the ladder?
I want to answer his questions because I like Nick a lot. He’s a happy kid with the kind of wit adults quickly keen up to. I consider confessing to him my deepest, darkest secret: I make up theories to explain things I know nothing about. That juncos are related to penguins because they both wear tuxedos. That trees make wind. That crickets communicate in Morse code. But I hold on to the purpose of the moment and confess that I don’t know the answers to any of his questions except the one about the ladder: No.
I set out to learn what I can about the new neighbors. My first discovery is that I am wrong. They are bald-faced hornets. And they traffic within Superfamilies called Vespidae, a name that sounds like an organized crime mob. Strong in number, body, and will, these hornets hunt. There’s not much romantic about them. They eat insects and spiders of all sorts. They carve up dead animals. They chew wood to mix with their own spit to make a nest. Nick is thrilled. We agree to keep watch. Weeks pass.
The nest grows from fist-sized to basketball-sized. Nick brings his camera so I can take a picture of him standing underneath, hands aloft, unafraid. He and his golfing buddy Jimmy try throwing rocks at it. Before I can intervene, the boys are shrugging their shoulders and walking away. Boy-courage trumps Vespidae venom. Spring becomes mid-summer.
Other dramas unfold around the yard. A distempered raccoon collapses under the maple tree in the afternoon sun. Two young cardinals are unable to care for their chick and it dies; after a brief, pitiful vigil they disappear, leaving the skeleton of their efforts behind. A mother rabbit digs a burrow in the front yard where four little faces peek out every day at dusk.
Vespidae activity shifts from improving the outer layers of the nest to internal matters. The queen’s daughters hum in and out all day long, hunting food for their hungry brothers and sisters. They guard the nest, too, while the adult males hang around grooming themselves waiting for their own time to mate. We make up theories about what’s going on in there: Poker parties, assorted acts of violence, maniacal consumption of road kill. Late summer arrives.
Nick begins to ask when we can take the nest down and open it up. He wants to take it to school. I tell him the hornets are too busy to go to school. He says he’s mostly too busy himself but his mother makes him go. I ask him about the photo we took. He confesses there was never any film in the camera, that he was just having fun. I tell him there are maybe 5,000 hornets in the nest and we had better wait until after a hard fall frost. Summer fades.
Finally, the day arrives. I clip the nest from the tree and hand it to Nick and he sets the bundle on the ground for examination. The nest has been constructed around an entire branch including leaves and twigs. It weighs almost nothing even though it looks like it should be as heavy as a brick. It’s easy to slice through with a kitchen knife. Inside we are amazed to discover the hornets’ nursery. Layers and layers of tiny rooms are supported by paper pillars and passageways. The dimensions of the honeycombed rooms are perfect, exact in form and function. We look at it for a long time and, in some funny way, we are disappointed. I wonder why. Did we really think there were poker parties going on in there? Or some bloody scene from a Godfather movie? It’s a nursery. And now the labor is done, the young queens and males dispersed. The process set to begin again next spring. That’s how things work for hornets.
Nick asks me another one of his loaded questions: Why do we have to care about hornets? We don’t have boys of our own but I can see that growing up in this world is a collision of hope and fear. I tread carefully. I could tell him that hornets always obey their mothers – they can’t help it, they’re programmed that way. But that strictly applies to the females. I could tell him that hornets have persistence and determination but he needs no encouragement there. I decide to tell him my simple revelation: The hornets gave us a chance to see life as it really is. The reality of what was going on inside the nest was far better than any of our made-up theories. Nick responds politely then sprints away to find Jimmy for a golf game. He leaves the nest at my feet. I prop it up on the front porch thinking he might want to take it to school but he never asks about it again. A possum finds it and eats it. Winter comes.
Facts and photos about hornets can be found in Science News Feb 11, 2006 Vol. 169, No 6, page 84; Insect Biology by H. Steven Dashefsky; Insects of North America by Alexander and Elsie Klots; The Insects by Peter Farb for Life Nature Library, Time-Life Books; Ants, Bees, Wasps, and Termites by Green and Corbet for Nature Fact File, Southwater Books.
Sketch of hornets nest by Nick Bourdages
Nick Bourdages is 11 years old and a sixth grader who lives in DeKalb, Ill. When he's not outside playing or learning about the natural world, Nick plays soccer, baseball and basketball. He has a passion for public speaking and is the 2005 Forensics Team State Champion in the category of Best Original Comedy. Nick also enjoys video games, food, and golf. He plans to pursue a career as a police officer.