In 1965, we moved back into town, into a house with central heating. Just move a dial on the wall, and no more cold mornings. Another bonus was that Elm School was right across the road. I would head to school when the bell went off and always ate a warm lunch at home. Out behind our new house, there was a small woodland of trees. These trees were pretty big, and it felt like one was out in the forest. It was a great place to hang out as a kid. One day, I was playing in this forest with a friend. We found an old, overgrown logging road that we had never noticed before. This road went through the forest right about where the courthouse is now located.
On this old road, we found a real ancient logging truck. This truck was pretty old, I mean, it was mostly rust held together by moss and vines. To us boys, though, it was a majestic log-hauling machine. One could just imagine this truck when it was shiny and new, and how thrilling it would have been driving it through the giant coastal trees as you made your way to the log dump.
It seemed to us to be a good idea to climb into the cab and pretend to be logging truck drivers. The doors were closed and jammed pretty tight with rust, and we struggled to open them. We looked around for something to pry them open with. We found an old board, and by pulling on the handle and prying with the board, we got it to open; at least we opened the passenger door this way. We could not budge the driver’s door. It took both of us pulling and pushing on the passenger door to open it wide enough for us to get in; the hinges were so rusted up. It made a hell of a squeal, but we got it open. The truck windows were missing, and we could have gotten in through them if we had thought of it.
We got in, forcing the door closed again, and I was in the driver’s seat, and my buddy was riding shotgun. We began to bounce up and down on the old spring and horsehair seats and act like we were travelling down a bumpy logging road. This activity was very upsetting to the wasp nest and its inhabitants that were attached to the underside of the seat springs. If you have ever had an encounter with wasps, you will know what happened next. They came forth like an angry mob, they were like tiny little demons banishing thin blades that dripped poison, stabbing you over and over again and again. Before we knew it, we had hundreds, if not thousands, of them stinging us everywhere. It was like a horror movie.
We sure had a tough time getting the door open again, and by the time we got out, we were screaming in pain. You could hardly see a spot on our bodies that was not stung. I was stung on my lips, eyelids, and in my nose, everywhere, and it hurt. It felt like fire. Once out of the truck, we had to run brushing wasps out of every spot they could be; they were even in my shorts. I was spitting them out of my mouth. The angry terrors from hell chased us halfway to my house. By the time we got there, my eyes were nearly swollen shut. My lips were so swollen, I could hardly talk. I felt like I was on fire.
My friend’s parents were called, and they came and picked him up. My mom then ran a bath with oats and salt in it, and had me soak for an hour, as she continually added more warm water that she was heating on the stove. It helped. I looked like hell and missed a few days of school. Mom took me to see Dr. Margetts to be checked out, and all was normal considering. At least I found out that I was not allergic to wasps. To this day, I still have a huge respect for wasp nests of any size. I give them a wide berth during any encounter.