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| Call of the Wild Getting Back To Nature Is No Picnic. |
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I was just about to take a much anticipated first bite of my ham-and-Swiss-cheese sandwich when she came into the room with this announcement. I started to suggest that she do what I do when I want to get back to nature: get out a can of "Mountain Pine" air-freshener and flip on the Discovery Channel. But before I could finish my sentence she had scooped up my sandwich and was headed for the kitchen to wrap it up. We were going on a picnic. Before I knew it, we were in the car and headed for Shelby Forest State Park. I hadn't been to the park since I was a kid but assured my wife that I remembered how to get there. Slightly wary of my navigational skills, she insisted I bring along a map just in case. On the way, I pulled into a grocery store to pick up some beer and ice for the cooler. I dashed in and was about to pick up a six-pack of Moosehead when a stockboy informed me that, on Sunday, you can't buy beer until noon. This was news to me. I guess next they'll pass a law requiring a seven-day cooling off period to purchase a swizzle stick. Anyway, I went to the metal ice chest, hoisted a big plastic bag of ice over my arm, and got in the check-out line. The line was moving so slowly that after a few minutes of hugging the ice bag I began to feel like a walking Sno-Cone. Never mind the Moosehead, I needed a six-pack of antifreeze. We had been driving for about an hour when my girlfriend started to get worried about us finding the park. I assured her that I could get us there by following my gut instinct. Another thirty minutes passed and still no park. I learned a valuable lesson: Never follow your gut instinct on an empty stomach--not to mention one still in the process of thawing out. Finally admitting that I was lost, I pulled over to the side of the road to check the map. I reached into the glove compartment and discovered, much to my dismay, that in my haste what I had grabbed wasn't a road map, but one of those historical maps that come with National Geographic. I had a sinking feeling as I opened it up, since I was pretty sure Shelby Forest wasn't in the cradle of civilization. Sure enough, this map didn't even have the New World on it, much less Shelby Forest. Unless we were going to Sumeria or Mesopotamia, it wasn't going to be much help. My wife anxiously asked where we were and I mumbled something about all roads leading to Rome. She was not amused. Now thoroughly humbled, I pulled into a gas station to ask for directions, and a young man with no shirt and a very bad sunburn showed us how to get to the park by diagramming the route on his stomach using various bodily attributes as local landmarks. Forget about gut instinct, here was a man who used his actual gut. We thanked him and pulled back onto the road. We were doing fine until about ten miles later, when we couldn't remember whether the man's navel represented the old white church or the giant oak tree. My wife swore it was the church and I steadfastly maintained it was the tree. I took a sharp right turn at the giant oak and--voila!--we were there. I thought about saying "I told you so," but decided that exhibiting a keen grasp of belly button cartography was a pretty strange thing to gloat about. As we drove through the tree-lined roads, the main thing on my mind was food, so I headed straight for the picnic tables. My wife got out the baskets and spread out the food. I lunged for my ham-and-Swiss and was just about to take a long-delayed bite when, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed an uninvited guest. It wasn't a bee, but it wasn't a wasp, either. All I know is that it hovered in front of me, flexing its stinger and staring me right in the eye as if to say, "Go ahead, make my day." I rolled up a newspaper and took a swat at it. "You made it mad," my wife said. Great. A creature with a brain the size of a pinhead, and it's mad at me. Suddenly, the bee thing from hell began diving at me. I began flailing my arms about like a Navy corps signalman sending an SOS. My wife said to remain calm, that it was only a bee and we were visitors in his home and that if we respected him he would respect us. Just as she said that, another one showed up and began dive-bombing her. The next thing I know, she's doing an involuntary Watusi. If there had been music, I think she could have won a talent contest. It's amazing what a thin line there is between dance and panic. We scooped up the food and made a mad dash for the car--serpentining all the way. Rather than communing with nature, we were running away from it, like people in a Godzilla movie. Looking on the bright side, at least we were getting some exercise--fleeing burns up a lot of calories. It should probably be an Olympic event. I bet you could really cut down the time in the fifty-yard dash if athletes were running from something--a swarm of bees, say, or better yet, a Buick. When we reached the car, we hopped in and rolled up the window. We finished our picnic in the car--with the air conditioner running. So much for communing with nature. Well, even though my run-in with the bees made me a picnic-basket case, I did get something out of the experience. I learned that my desire to get back to nature ends where a stinger begins. Illustration by Barry Willis |
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