Once Upon a December

The forest near my grandparents’ house was one of favorite places as a child.  My cousins and I spent ages exploring the maze-like network of trails, playing out pretend stories of Indians and cowboys, school, and the infamous games of “house,” carrying around dolls and dreaming up our future lives.  Although the woods bring up fantastic memories with my cousins, I occasionally think of another memory from the woods, one that to this day sends chills down my spine and makes me shudder.

It was unreasonably cold that afternoon.  One of my cousins, my grandmother, and I set out for a journey into the woods, my cousin and I bundled in matching coats and scarves that made us look more like sisters than cousins.  Deep in the woods, we found an abandoned tree house, one that my dad and aunt had played in when they were young.  The tree house looked ancient, weathered to the point of destruction by the many summers and winters it had laid abandoned.  The house ensnared our attention and eerily called us closer like a dark and mysterious shipwreck captivates a scuba diver.  The old wooden roof of the tree house had fallen on the ground and we eagerly jumped up on top.  Big mistake.

When I was little, I was a big fan of Winnie the Pooh.  I’d seen numerous times the animated tornado of bees buzzing annoyingly around their honey in the cartoon.  I hadn’t realized, before this day in the woods, that bees actually travel in tornados until my cousin and I inadvertently crushed their nest.  The nest was harbored under the tree house roof that we playfully jumped upon like a trampoline.  The raging tornado of bees stung us all over, chasing us for what felt like miles back up the path all the way to my grandparent’s house.  I’m sure we looked quite ridiculous running up the trails, screaming that these bees would be the ends of us.  Once we finally got inside it still wasn’t over; the bees had crawled into our scarves and coats, still stinging as we stripped down in the middle of the house.  Eventually, all the furious bees were gone, dead bees and disregarded coats littering the floor as we examined the damages.  According to my family, I looked like a tomato with around ten stings on my face alone.  We were totally fine, just terrified out of our minds.

            Before that day I had been innocently fearless, never afraid of the woods or being outside or buzzing insects.  For a long time after that day in the woods, I was irrationally afraid of all things related to flying bugs.  Although it was horrified at the time,  I now find the story quite humorous.  I laugh at the vivid picture of my cousin and I running for our lives through the woods chased by a tornado of tiny insects.