By James W. Dolan

After a recent episode my family has changed my Indian name from "Dangerous With Tools" to "Dances With Bees." Kevin Costner was a stumble-foot compared to my performance after a vicious bee attack.

Moving some summer furniture behind the shed in my back yard, I literally stepped on a nest of wasps. It was dusk, so at first I didn't see them. It was only after I felt several stings on my bare legs that I realized what was happening.

I began to run, with the bees in pursuit, but stumbled on a tree root. My son-in-law saw what was happening and ran toward me to render assistance. Courageously, I waved him off yelling "save yourself" as I struggled to my feet. I positioned my body between the bees and him so that I would take the brunt of the attack as he ran for the house.

The attack continued, as I valiantly tried to fight off the pesky critters, who by then had apparently summonsed all the bees in the neighborhood. Their numbers obscured the setting sun as they dove kamikaze-style at my exposed skin. I could swear I saw little rising suns painted on their wings as they continued the attack.

I ducked, slapped, kicked, and ran away from the house, not wanting to expose my grandchildren (in front of the house) to the onslaught. I even apologized, hoping that would appease them, but this would not be a negotiated peace. Onward they came as I, with only my bare hands and wits to protect me, stood alone to face them.

After what seemed like an eternity, my heroic flailing, yelling and jumping drove them off and I was able to sit and examine my wounds. At least eight stings in my legs and a couple in my arms but I had been able to protect my vital organs and my face. I would survive.

I don't know how many bees I killed during the attack but I gave as good as I got. Normally a peaceful man, it is only when assaulted that I react violently. There were fewer drones around the queen that night because of my vigorous defense.

Two bees (apparently special forces) had secreted themselves in my clothing and attacked me in the bathroom while I was washing up. I managed to trap them in the bathroom and my son-in-law, embarrassed at having abandoned me in the field, insisted upon going in and mopping up.

A lesser man might have gone to the emergency room, but I refused any medical treatment choosing to carry on in the highest bee fighter tradition. While family members watched to see if I would have a reaction, I poured myself a drink and insisted I was fine.

I suffered silently in excruciating pain that night not wishing to detract from the backyard heroics that prompted my new tribal name. The name of "Dances With Bees" was not to be sullied.

The next evening, armed with two cans of hornet spray, I launched an attack of my own on the hive. Facing my enemies alone, I opened up from a safe distance and wiped them out without suffering a single sting.

Over the next week the effects of the stings gradually wore off. but the legend grew. I had hoped to quietly move on with my life not wishing any notoriety. but friends and family kept asking me to recount my epic saga of battle with the "swarm." I modestly declined with a muttered "Pshaw! Pshaw! Anyone would have done it." Knowing better, they insisted and I reluctantly complied.

I notice now that bees steer a wide course around me in the yard. Some instinct apparently alerts them to the danger I pose although so far mosquitoes have failed to get the message. I used to like bees. I was content to leave them alone so long as they didn't bother me. When I stumbled upon their nest it was an accident not deserving of their vicious assault.

As far as I'm concerned, it's over. Not one to hold a grudge, I am trying to resume my normal routine. My grandchildren look at me with new respect knowing how valiantly I led the bees away from them on that terrible day.

That incident once again gave me the chance to demonstrate my worth. There are few opportunities today to prove one's mettle. I was challenged by the forces of nature and was up to the task. Even now I sometimes wake up at night flailing away at squadrons of bees as they dive to attack

When dead and buried, I immodestly suggested a small plaque on the tree near the scene of battle might be an appropriate memorial. These simple lines would capture the moment:

"On this hallowed ground in the year 2003,

A man stood alone between family and bee.

Repeatedly stung by those damn little critters,

He failed to display any sign of the jitters.

Know you all who tread 'neath these trees,

Beneath your feet lies Dances With Bees."