I grew up in a great neighborhood. Lots of big families, ethnic families, Catholic families. We didn’t seem to notice any difference between our tribes. Everybody, all the little clans, gathered for stick ball, hopscotch, frog catching, and tag. And we all seemed to operate under the same, ominous rule: You had to go home when the street lights came on. Magical, really.

We had neighborhood birthday parties. God, I loved those. We wore pointy hats. We ate cake and ice cream. We played pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey, and dropped wooden clothes pins into milk bottles from the tips of our noses. Fabulous.

Tonight, this photo reminded me of it all. When I was six, I went to Elena Mikalauskas’ birthday party, just up the street. She was turning five. At one point, just before the “opening of the presents”, she became exceedingly happy and excited. That wacky Elena raised her arms over her head in a celebratory fashion, and when she lowered them, she trapped a wasp in her right armpit. Stung. Shouts of joy quickly transformed into cries of pain. Kids running every where. Tables over turned. Mayhem. Panic. All because a young Lithuanian Catholic girl was assailed by a WASP. Hmmm. Not so good.

Stingers