Wasper

by Pamela Zendt

The rascal who loved me.

Yesterday I fixated on a poppy. Leaning in, I studied the petals, appreciating the delicate colors, but my poppy preoccupation was interrupted:

Lookie here. I’m plain, I’m black, I sting, I wing. Hey, I’m talkin’ to you.

A wasp.

My daddy called them “waspers,” which I like. Makes ‘em seem edgy, high-strung.

“Heyyyy you wasper,” I said, lowering my voice, thinking of her as a rascal, those poppies already far out-of-mind.

Rascals are gay, lively, sharp. The best ones are the life of the party but still get the job done. My daddy, a Tennessee farmer, was like that, and I feel tender toward his memory now in this sweltering heat well-known to laborers.

Wonder why he gave wasps a rascally name?

“You like poppies, Ms. Wasper?”

She seemed to be okay with them.

The winged one also seemed to be okay with me too. She jittered close, then above those blossoms like a Boss Lady airplane pilot who demanded only short-hop flights so she could spend nights in her own nest.

Wasps can be rascals, ruin your picnic, but: they get the job done.

Bees get the best pollination press, but these wasp individuals from the meaner side of the family deserve credit too. Wasps pollinate 1000 different plants, many of which are fully dependent on them for life.

I’ll remember Ms. Wasper well. Today I went to the Best Bug Aliases (BBA) Wikipedia page and submitted with great respect tinged with a little fear a new entry:

WASPER.