I recently went to pick up my old Chevrolet, tag in hand, ready to bring her home and work on her.

The car's front seat was covered with a floral print blanket, leading me to dub her "Mrs. Daisy".

It's not a bad name for a 1956 station wagon. Most people could not appreciate the aesthetic beauty of a slightly rusted green station wagon, but I have unique vision. For some reason, I can find something to love about any old car.

Now if I could just apply that principal to the rest of my life, I would be totally stupid. All that rose colored glasses do is give you a better chance of running into the wall in a darkened hallway. That or another old junk car.

At any rate, I packed up a battery, a can of spray lubricant (that sounds funny) and a few sundry tools and went off to fetch Mrs. Daisy, who had been living in a briar patch until I pulled her out a few weeks before.

That's when I realized what a jewel I had. Genuine Motorola radio, padded dash, half-working column shift, pop riveted floors, torn headliner and all. But I had these rose colored glasses on and, pow, there goes another wall.

The one-barrel carburetor had the accelerator pump unhooked for some unknown reason. I fixed that. I installed the battery and then turned her over. Instantly, I remembered the one thing I had forgotten: Bees. As a comforting gesture, they declined to forget me.

Wasps, hornets, yellow jackets and God-knows-what-else flew out from seemingly every crevice of the car. I charged through the knee-high grass swinging my greasy hat like a magic wand that just wouldn't make those rascals disappear.

I had bees in and on the hat after awhile, like the proverbial bee in the bonnet. The more I waved, the angrier they became. I ended up with a few stings on my back and one a little lower, a couple on my stomach and chest, one on my neck and one on my head. Please note: this is not the time for bald spot jokes. I finally got far enough away to get the rascals more interested in munching flowers or whatever bees do when they aren't trying to kill me.

I didn't know that many bees could live in one place. It must have been like a bee apartment complex, albeit low income due to the junk cars and mobile homes in the area. Maybe it was a bee 'hood.

I believe in living and letting live, but these guys had gone too far.

It was getting near on evening time so I knew that all the little bees would be coming in from selling their flower powder soon.

I waited about 10 minutes to make sure they were calm and then I decided to take them out. It was like a drive-by in the bee 'hood.

I had my cigarette lighter and my can of WD-40 in hand when I charged through bee street spraying flaming oil as I ran to the first spot and then ran away, fire still singeing the air.

And I must admit, I was jubilant as I watched their little flaming bodies fall out of the air like downed fighter planes.

But some of the bees had built in better areas of the hood - areas of the car that wouldn't be good to set on fire. Like the gas tank, for instance, or the instrument panel.

I needed backup. I went to the building and got a can of gas and a nearly-empty bottle of wasp and hornet spray that was every bit as old as the bee 'hood.

You see, I was really in a mind to kill at this point. I could feel the burning welts on my back (and that area just below), stomach and neck already throbbing. It wasn't only extermination, it was revenge.

I used the spray inside the car. It was still almost effective after 10 years in a rusty can. Then I tossed cups of gasoline on the other bees and they contorted and died. I knocked off the nest and then piled them up and performed a cremation service.

Satisfied at last, I tried, in the waning daylight, to start my car. The carburetor gushed gas out the sides and it wouldn't fire at all. I decided to leave it on my land until another day.

But, given the circumstances, I think I'll rename it the Green Hornet.

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