That's My Boy!

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Beisser's wisdom trade mark

At a recent family gathering, my daughter-in-law told a story about the investigating prowess of her husband.

Apparently, my son had been observing bees crawling in and out of the attic of his house through an opening between the brick facade and the soffit.

I can see clearly how the story developed.

While sleeping by his wife in their bed one night, my son became aware of a strange buzzing. It wasn't the noise of a mouse in the attic. It wasn't the heat pump running. It wasn't the toilet being stuck or a fan somewhere in the house.

Having eliminated all scenarios, he came to the conclusion that it is an active bee's hive, in the attic, directly over their bed.

When his wife awoke by the strange jostling of the mattress, she turned to see in the dim light where the disturbance originated.

There, before her blurred eyes, next to her head, were a pair of hairy bare legs, standing on the bed.

"What in the world," she gasped, as her eyes travelled up, past the bony knees, past the jockey shorts, past the ample girth, all the way to under her husbands chin. There he stood, engrossed.

Quickly he whispered to his wife,  "hush-up."

He stood, arms stretched upward, his stethoscope stuck in the ears, holding the end against the ceiling, listening, to the buzz of the swarm in the attic.

A picture forever, no doubt, in my daughter-in-law's mind.

As my Sherlock Holmes boy moved the stethoscope from spot to-spot to-spot around the ceiling, he determined the center of the hive in the attic, above the sheetrock, among the insulation.

Now, facts accumulated, he formulated his solution.

Right or wrong, the Beisser men alway have a solution. Dumb, maybe. . . Odd, maybe. . . Never been done this way before, maybe. . . . A solution nonetheless.

It is now three o'clock in the morning. 'My boy' is going to see this adventure through to the end. He goes to the basement to gather the weapons for the late night battle.

With a thin drill bit, he drills through the sheetrock ceiling, above the bed, at the predetermined center of the bustling hive. He then removes the thin 10-W-40 nozzle from its can and inserts into the hornet bomb canister. With calculated precision he sticks the nozzle through the drilled hole and lets her rip. (I mean the hornet spray!)

An instant roaring buzz in the attic conveyed a direct hit with the hornet spray.

As the critters upstairs scattered and croaked, the buzz simmered down. He turns the bedroom light off, and lays back down to sleep.

Then, a sigh of relieve, a job well done, the blissful quiet returns to the night, . . . oops, . . . a drip.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . the bug-bomb-juice is dripping from the hole in the ceiling, unto the pillow, between the sleeping beauties below.

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