My wife (bless her heart) was getting the lawnmower out of the old wooden shed that sat, without suitable foundation, right on the dirt. That's no way to build a shed, but, in my defense, the shed was there when I bought the property. I would have done the proper thing and put the shed up on cinder blocks. Like my cars.

But I digress.

So, my wife came into the shop whining about a big bumble bee that had nested under the shed and wouldn't let her get near the shed door. She could not retrieve the lawnmower. After I did the appropriate roll of the eyes that indicated my male superiority and greater understanding of my dominion over the natural world (I may have sighed audibly as well so as to make sure that she knew -- in the event that she had failed to notice the roll of the eyes -- that I was being put out to have to help her get ready to cut the grass)….

…I got up from the wheel and dried my hands as I explained to her that, "Bees are not aggressive. If you simply ignore them, they will just leave you alone." Then I grabbed the flyswatter that hung by the door, doubting that I'd need a weapon, but caution, preparedness, valor – something along those lines vaguely occurred to me. Thus armed, I walked out back to take care of bee business.

The sucker flew directly at me. I mean, he flew AT me. DIRECTLY at me. He meant business and I was unprepared.

I don't know what it's called when you do the opposite of ducking – wherein you jerk your head back REAL quickly -- but that's what I did first. The backwards duck. Then I darted to the side, flailing at the air with the flyswatter, swinging it with the macho flair of a young girl swinging a badminton racket. Really, not even that much macho. And no flair.

Now the thing was still coming at me -- at one time darting directly toward my bare legs, the next time buzzing upwards at my face again.

This up and down tack the bumble bee had employed had me alternately ducking my head, then whipping it back away from the charging beast, all the while kicking my legs backward to avoid allowing it to land on my legs.

This little dance of mine began with me spinning in a circle, all the while trying desperately to keep my eyes on the bee so that I could continue to dodge it. Eventually I began to run …… backwards -- eyes still on the bee -- across the yard and hopefully away from the bee's home.

The bee did not stop its pursuit. It continued to go at face and leg. I continued to backpedal. And cuss. A lot.

As I was backpeddling, the bee seemed to be easily able to keep up with me. I finally decided that I had come to the point where I might be able to take the risk and make the strategic move to turn around and actually run full speed away from the thing.

I summoned up the courage to finally turn around. That was just about exactly where the mailbox stands at the edge of our yard. Well…….not "just about". It was exactly where the mailbox stands. Stood. That's where the mailbox stood. At least until I hit it full speed and spinning ahead.

The mailbox and I went down HARD. I hurt. I won't say exactly where the mailbox hit me. And don't point out to me that it was actually me who did the hitting. That kind of "pointing out" is called "insult to injury". And the injury was bad enough. – I was left with two bruised "things" and not a shred of dignity.

After I recovered a bit, I went inside. There was still a yard to be cut, a lawnmower to be retrieved, and, as God is my witness, a bumblebee to kill.

As I remember that day, it was a summer day and the temps were every bit of the upper eighties. I came out of the house with sweatpants OVER my jeans, a sweatshirt OVER a long-sleeved flannel shirt, a hat (balaclava that covers the face), gloves, a scarf, my old glasses (a fashion of the 70's – HUGE lenses that covered a good portion of my face). There was not a square inch of skin showing anywhere on me. And I was carrying a can of wasp and hornet spray – the kind that shoots in a stream.

I killed it.

When it's man vs. nature, is there ever really any doubt?