All you need to know about my 'waspy' new neighbors

Paper wasp nest hidden away in magnolia in our yard.

The lovely Miss Wendy was getting the mail earlier this week when she glanced up at a nearby tree and spotted something a bit odd and a little unsettling.

What she saw looked like a wrinkled basketball, aged and whitish and attached to a limb about 15 feet off the ground.

On closer inspection, it appeared that the object was either some sort of exotic fruit that was withering on the vine or, more likely, a mini-condo for an entire generation of winged critters!

When a couple of flitting thingies poked their noggins out of the complex it became pretty clear that Wendy and I were now neighbors with a fully-developed nest filled with fully-developed wasps.

At first glance the insects seemed to be 'paper wasps', members of the vespid subfamily polistinae that also includes hornets and yellowjackets. Here's the good news.

Paper wasps are the least aggressive of this group of pests. The bit of research I've managed since spotting their home suggests the insects have a live-and-let-live attitude; don't bother us and we won't bother you.

Apparently, that seems to be the case. Nests are usually created in early spring, a starter home of sorts that expands as the waspy population grows. By early summer what started off as just a queen and a few eggs can easily grow into a bustling hive of several thousand.

The flying hordes, however, have yet to cause any problems. If they've been partying this summer, they've kept the music turned down Low. And here's some more good news.

Summer is already burning itself out and with the first chill of fall our waspy neighbors will begin dying off. By Halloween there's a chance the nest will be haunted and even a better chance it will be empty. Only the queen will survive Mother Nature turning down the thermostat and Google tells me she'll be looking for greener pastures next spring to call home.

So if you spot me tip-toeing down my driveway on the way to get the mail for the next month or so, I'm just trying to be a good neighbor. I'm also thinking that should take the sting out of having to share my property with a bunch of wasps!

Cool, crisp days with a chance of Ladybugs

I usually don’t think of bugs being a problem when the weather chills out, but in the last week or so an entire generation of Ladybugs has moved into our little corner of the world.

I imagine there’s a good chance I’m noticing the little critters because our home is light and bright now – this is our thanks for dusting things up! The orangey thingies are easily spotted traveling from here to there in search, I reckon, of even smaller critters – aphids, scale insects – to gather up for dinner.

They don’t pose much of a problem and I’m fine with their buggy presence as long as they remain outside. Not being sentient beings, however, the itty-bitty beetles don’t seem to grasp the concept of being unwelcome guests. So I’ve been forced to escort dozens to the door, thank you very much!

This just in to news central, with a tip of the hat to Wikipedia! Apparently, here in the Land of Cotton, Coccinellids – aka Ladybugs – usually begin to appear indoors in the fall. They leave their summer feeding sites in fields, forests and yards looking for a place to spend the winter. Who knew?

I guess that means I should be gussying up the guestroom and stocking up on aphids. I imagine it also wouldn’t hurt to buy a few extra bottles of gin so I can make a few dozen – wait for it – Pink Ladies. Of course me and my ladybug friends will be enjoying cocktails while vegging out to – that’s right – Lady Gaga!

Mother Nature needs to rethink pecking order

They’re back! And I thought I had at least another month before the pecking started in earnest.

It all begins each year with just a vague little sound off in the distance. As often as not, it’s a tiny annoyance that I manage to ignore until I find myself holding my breath, trying to figure out what’s going on around my house.

Something is happening somewhere; I just have no clue what or where. Eventually I put on hold whatever I’m doing and venture out into the hallway, once again holding my breath until I hear a whack, then another and yet another. It’s always a series of tiny pecks, fluid in execution, a primal act of nature.

At some point I’m able to figure out what direction the sound is coming from and then, not unlike a heat-seeking missile, I explode, dashing into whatever room my inner radar selects, whipping up the blinds, ready for action.

As often as not, the culprit ignores me all together. Generally it’s a finch or sparrow, almost never a woodpecker. Go figure! For whatever reason, the little birdie and its friends and family grow tired of the pines and hardwoods dotting my property and take special delight in pecking holes in the siding of my home.

My plan of attack is simple. Bang on the walls and windows until the feathered rodents fly off and begin pecking away at the home of one of my neighbors. Occasionally, I dash outside and grab anything nearby – pine cones, pebbles, bricks – and lob it in the direction of the birdie doing the damage.

All this effort generally works – for about five minutes or so. On really bad days, bands of birds spend the morning feasting on my home, banging away until they manage to create a foothold of some sort. By the middle of spring there are often a half-dozen holes in the siding of the house and dozens of laughing birds mocking my efforts to battle Mother Nature.

The chill of winter will hold off the annual full assault for at least a few more weeks and this year I’m gonna be prepared. I’m toying with the idea of buying a pellet gun or, better yet, a howitzer. Anyone have a decent recipe for fried finch or sparrow stew?

Cuddly and cute and thinkng about tomorrow

I wasn’t sure if it was Chip or Dale, but a cute little chipmunk – well, aren’t they all cute? – has made my yard his playground for the last several months. And no, the bug-eyed fellow in the photo here is not the diminutive critter dashing about my property.

If I had time to grab my camera, this is pretty much what he (or, um, she) looks like. Heck, they might be cousins; both have that oh-so sweet chubby cheeks and wide-eyed stare thing going on. I’m just saying …

I imagine it takes another chipmunk to easily tell one from the other. My guess is the little squirrels – yes, essentially chipmunks are tiny squirrels – carry all sorts of exotic diseases, but from a distance they seem harmless and, well, cute

They also have a little something to say about the human condition. At least that’s what I was thinking when I spotted Emile – hey, I have to call him something – scurrying around my patio earlier this week. Chipmunks are obsessive-compulsive planners. Emile knows the days are growing shorter and cooler. It’s time to get ready for winter.

So my furry friend stays busy now collecting stuff to keep him and his family comfy in the coming months. We’re talking nuts and berries, the occasional bird’s egg, small frogs, worms and fungi. Yech! Oh, and a few bits of bread, pretzels and roasted peanuts! You know, your basic comfort food!

Here’s one additional factoid before I wrap this all together and wow you with my insight into chipmunks and what their behavior has to do with you and me. It turns out those chubby cheeks aren’t just about cuteness. Chipmunks have cheek pouches that allow them to carry multiple food items to their burrows for storage. Who knew?

So, Nor, what's it all mean? I'm glad you asked. The days are getting shorter and cooler. That’s meant as a metaphor. It’s time we started filling our, ahh, pouches with nuts and seeds. Another metaphor. Because I fear there’s a long, frigid winter stretching out in front of us and you can never have too many tasty worms hidden away in storage. Just saying …

How many turtles does it take to creep you out?

It’s just a little bridge, connecting the walking path I follow along the river several days each week. It spans a good-sized creek flowing into the 'hooch, just the other side of Roswell Road – that would be a main thoroughfare for those of you not familiar with the Land of Cotton.

Bits of debris – tree trunks and limbs, rocks and other such stuff – rise up out of the murky water that puddles into a lazy cove before spilling into the river. A blink of the eye ago – weeks, months, whatever – I spotted a few joggers who were leaning out over the bridge, pointing at something in the water. As I drew closer, I noticed what appeared to be, well, a turtle atop one of the logs, sunning itself in the morning light.

As the turtle enjoyed its perch, a second turtle – perhaps its mate – swam lazily in circles around the log, idly lapping its way through the day. Neither turtle seemed to be in a rush. This was their work and play, perhaps their mission in life.

I’ve passed this way often in the last few months, making a point to glance over the bridge, down into the nearby murky water. And as often as not, my turtle friend – or one of its relatives or mates, is sunning itself on an exposed rock or rotting tree trunk.

And so it was yesterday morning, as I glanced about on my morning walk. High atop a fallen tree branch, half submerged in the middle of the creek, a hefty turtle – at least two feet or so in circumference – sat smugly sunning itself, its neck stretched out in regal repose.

Just a few inches lower on the branch was another turtle and I smiled at this modest scene of nature, thinking briefly that there are probably people somewhere paying good money at a zoo to witness a similar tableau.

Then something caught my attention – a shadow, perhaps a falling leaf – and I looked slightly to the left and there, yes, was another turtle resting on another limb. Wow, it seemed I had stumbled into Turtle Town!

Have you ever been looking at something, thinking you know exactly what you're seeing and then, bit by bit you start picking up additional images and shapes? That’s pretty much what happened over the next moment or two – and, no, I wasn't having some sort of '60s flashback.

First there was one turtle, then two, then three, then, well, at least 22 at last count – all quietly sunning themselves on fallen branches and rocks. They were big and small, but all seemed to be of the genus Terrapene – that would be your basic box turtle.

One turtle is cute, two even cuter. But a whole bunch of them all gathered together becomes a little creepy. I felt for just an instant that I had stumbled into some sort of alternative universe and I was the star in a new Alfred Hitchcock thriller – THE TURTLES!

The moment passed but the ick factor has remained. All those turtles, bug-eyed and long of neck, sunning their glossy shells and snoozing through the day. Might be time to find a new route along the river or, better yet, open up a kiosk specializing in – that’s right, you know what’s coming – turtle soup!

Now I've got a good reason to be ticked off!

The lovely Miss Wendy and I just returned from an emergency visit to the local fire station. I needed a little attention from one of the medics.

The episode began simply enough with my wife noticing a little blemish on the back of my neck. I’ve been spending way too much time outdoors in recent weeks, doing yard work and exercising, and Miss Wendy thought perhaps I might want to make an appointment with a dermatologist.

Then she noticed that the blemish had, ugh, legs and our little problem took on a bit of added urgency. She made an effort to remove the thingy that was clinging to my neck, just below the hairline – okay, there’s not much hair atop my head – but the critter wasn’t budging.

Just a day earlier, both of us had read an article in the local newspaper detailing the growing problem of ticks in the Land of Cotton. The little buggers have been multiplying like, well, ticks. Apparently the female of the species, in the last days of her life, can lay up to 3,000 eggs. And it seems my yard has become tick central this summer.

I can’t say that I recall actually ever seeing a tick before. But in the last week I spotted one climbing up my leg, another attached to my arm and now this most recent episode. Since the newspaper story made it very clear that removing a tick is a delicate procedure, we decided to seek professional help.

Five minutes later a medic was checking out my neck and figuring out the best way to remove the pest. If you yank at a tick, there’s a good chance its head, oh gross, will remain attached to your skin. Worse, if you pinch it too hard, there’s a very real possibility the ugly critter will regurgitate all manner of bacteria into your bloodstream.

In fact, it’s believed such puking is how people contract Lyme disease, a particularly nasty malady characterized by arthritic and neurological problems. All this was buzzing through my noggin – plus images of Sigourney Weaver battling that foul-smelling, disgusting Alien creature that came busting through the guts of its victims – as the medic slowly doused the tick with alcohol then gingerly pried it away from my skin.

Just to be safe, we now have the tick buried in two zip lock bags and stored in our freezer. Hey, that’s what the newspaper article suggested you do if bitten. Then, if you do become sick, the culprit can be examined and might help in a final diagnosis.

I’m hoping a month from now we can toss the tick, along with any residual worries. But to be on the safe side, I just had Miss Wendy strip search me. Okay, I know that’s an image you probably could have managed to live without. Too late now. Sorry.

OH, GROSS: Wet weather in the Land of Cotton this spring and early summer has provided perfect conditions for ticks (photo above) to produce and prosper in lawns, shrubbery and trees.

Katrina, Camille and a massive oil spill

The images out of the gulf coast are alarming, nature once again showing who's boss -- and who ain't. The daily horror show -- oil-slicked beaches, wetlands, birds, turtles and other critters -- is a heavy price to pay for our inexhaustible craving and need for energy.

The area, of course, has been hit hard before, most recently and dramatically when Hurricane Katrina roared onto shore, demolishing man-made structures and pristine beaches from the Florida panhandle, across Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana.

New Orleans has yet to fully recover. And it's the Crescent City that I've been thinking about lately, that jazzy happening of a place snuggled up close and tight against the mighty Mississippi.

A little over four decades ago -- it was the summer of 1969 -- I was working as an intern for my hometown paper, the Columbus Enquirer. I stayed busy taking obits over the phone, writing short feature stories and occasionally tagging along with the cop reporter as he made his daily rounds.

The job was all about the basics -- read and study reports; know the right people to interview and the right questions to ask; take good notes and transcribe them quickly; pay attention to everything that is said and everything to be seen. When writing, use active verbs and short, declarative sentences. Grab attention with the story's lead, then explore and explain and finish with a flourish!

I learned more that summer about reporting and writing in eight weeks than four years in journalism school. But that's another story for another day.

The last week of my internship, we began hearing about massive storm clouds building in the Gulf of Mexico, a deteriorating weather system that spilled across hundreds of miles of ocean. It seemed headed for the Texas coast, then turned on itself and sprinted toward Mississippi.

It was called Camille, a monster of a storm, a category 5 Hurricane with sustained winds nearing 190 mph. On the evening of August 17 and throughout much of the following day, Camille made landfall. When she finally moved inland, 259 people were dead, thousands were injured and tens of thousands were homeless. Back when the dollar was worth, well, a dollar, Camille caused $1.42 billion in damage.

There were no computers back then, no web to monitor the storm's progress, or 24-hour Weather Channel to broadcast warnings. It was a different time, when things happened and it took hours -- sometimes days -- to learn the facts.

Slowly news began trickling into the newsroom, press reports from the Associated Press and wire photos in black and white that detailed broken buildings and broken lives. It was days before the full extent of the damage was widely known.

Just a month later, I was on my way to New Orleans, traveling along a road that hugged the Gulf of Mexico through Western Alabama and Mississippi. The interstate system was still only an idea in this region, so I meandered along the coast on U.S. 90, passing through major cities and little villages -- Pascagoula, Gautier, Biloxi, Gulfport, Long Beach, Pass Christian and Bay St. Louis.

The destruction was massive. Entire blocks of buildings were reduced to rubble, trees uprooted and power lines snapped. Cars and trucks were tossed about like toys, pushed aside now into vacant lots to allow traffic to once again flow smoothly.

Two images linger.

A huge barge, tons of twisted metal and broken glass, had been grounded by the storm in Gulfport. It rested atop a home, at least 100 yards from the beach on the far side of the coastal road.

A bit further west, in Bay St. Louis, the facade of a two-story house had been ripped away by gale-force winds. The capricious forces at work, however, had left the home's furnishings in place and intact.

It only took a month or so to clear away the obvious signs of the storm, a year to mend and rebuild most of the homes, offices, schools and resorts. Lives were lost, tears shed, families uprooted.

But life went on. Camille became a distant, painful memory. It's been left to the poet to suggest that "time heals are wounds". But nature has returned, offered an opening by our collective wants and needs. This time around time is killing us, an open wound on the ocean's floor spewing death and destruction that apparently can't be stopped.

If you're the sort to cry, weep for a way of life slipping away in an oil slick that grows by the hour. Then take a little time to pray that the smartest and the brightest figure out a solution soon, before the Gulf of Mexico becomes a distant, painful memory.

SIGN OF THE TIMES: Oil-stained pelican (photo above) tries to leaves its nest as oil washes ashore near barrier island just inside the coast of Louisiana / AP

Lovely -- and full of crap!

Here's a "crappy" fact I find a bit alarming. One Canadian Goose defecates 28 times a day!

And if you do the math -- and apparently there are people that have -- that groaning effort produces up to two pounds of, ahhhh, feces per goose, per day.

Down here in the "Land of Cotton", it would seem that that's a nugget of info that's interesting but of little concern. Au contrair, mom ami!

Let me explain. There's a lovely walking path in my neighborhood, parallel and only a few yards from several parks, natural green space and the Chattahoochee River.

I spend a good bit of time there, exercising and thinking, watching people and being watched in return.

Walk far enough -- the trail meanders about for nearly six miles -- on a gorgeous day when the Georgia sky is a deep blue and the temperature has yet to break a sweat and there's a good chance you'll share the space with joggers and bikers, kids on skateboards and teens on rollerblades.

There are often couples cuddling on blankets and families having picnics; fishermen on the banks and boaters in the water; dogs and cats, squirrels, chipmunks and an assortment of other critters too shy to show themselves.

And there are Canadian geese -- gaggles and gaggles of geese -- waddling about, drawn by the river and the inviting marshlands nearby. They spend their days doing what geese do -- sleeping and swimming, eating and pooping.

Did I mention they crap up to 28 times a day?

So, other than aesthetic considerations, why should this concern me -- and you, if you happen to live in an area that these flying rats call home?

It turns out goose turds are loaded with all sorts of bad stuff. Recent research at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta confirms that Canada goose excrement is laden with potentially dangerous bacteria, including E. coli and salmonella microbes.

So, the CDC suggests, be careful where you walk, where you eat, where you play when visiting the Chattahoochee. Because it turns out my lovely walking path -- and other similar areas across the U.S. and Canada -- is nothing but a pretty toilet for our feathered friends.