introduce themselves, and when it when it was my turn I told the group that I was a writer and gardener. I said I had attended the beekeeping class the year before and was interested in observing a swarm capture. I took my seat and the two men who had been talking turned to me.
The fifty-something man whispered, “There’s a swarm by the Country Club. We’re going to capture it tomorrow. Do you want to go in the morning, if they’re still there?” “Sure,” I answered, stunned by the immediate gratification of my heart’s desire. The man introduced himself as Tony and drew a map showing how to get to his house. He said he’d call me by 8 A.M. and let me know if the bees were still there. He said he had a veil I could borrow and instructed me to wear light colored clothing.
* * *
The next morning I awoke early, excited and thinking about the swarm, hoping it was still there. I dressed in khakis, cowboy boots, and a long- sleeved white shirt. In the class we were told beekeepers wear white cloth- ing because bees don’t like dark colors; big dark shapes outside of the hive look too much like hungry bears. Moving on with my toilette, I discovered that for deodorant I had only a natural brand, honeysuckle rose scented, or lavender talcum—both no-no’s in beekeeping. They’d mentioned this par- ticular commandment in bee school as well. Do not perfume thyself before bee handling, be mindful of all scents, even those in hand lotions. I knew from personal experience how much they were attracted to floral scents and didn’t wish to take the chance of arousing even honey-sedated bees. My bee bouquet adventure had taken place in fifth grade. It was springtime and I was sitting at my desk while a bee explored the surface of my hand. While a few kids shrieked, “Look, she’s letting the bee crawl on her!” I patiently waited for her to leave, and she did, flying out the window. My teacher, Mrs. Bernie, asked if I was wearing perfume and I admitted I was, something floral and secretly borrowed from my step mom’s dresser that morning.
It wasn’t the first time I’d been up close and personal with bees, either. At age six I discovered the fun of trapping them in baby food jars. I even got my sister Karen, who is a year younger, to join me. It was an exciting game, tracking the little creatures as they landed on dandelions and then slowly lowering the inverted jar over them, sliding the metal lid under. I’d stare at them in their little glass prison, mesmerized by the buzz-
ing sound that came so loudly through the holes I’d punched in the top. The bees were always perturbed; it was as if they were giving me a good cussing. Nevertheless, I always enjoyed the sensation of my power over the bees, even while experiencing a definite prickle in my conscience that what I was doing wasn’t really kind. We always let them go—after a little while. That particular game ended when my little sister fell and cut her hand on a glass jar (not badly, but enough for Mom to put a stop to the game).
As I prepared for the 8 A.M. call I thought about how, in the beekeeping class, we were taught to move calmly and slowly around the bees. Bees didn’t have great eyesight but responded to the threat of motion near their hive. I could handle a zen-like state, the floral-free requirement, and the light clothing. People who panic easily would not be doing this anyway, I mused, envisioning the cartoon image of a person running away from a hive, a swarm of bees following in hot pursuit.
Tony called. The bees were still there, I could come right over. Driving down a picturesque road to an older subdivision sandwiched between the country club’s lush green grounds and the towering white sandstone bluffs of one of our city’s natural vistas, I found Tony’s two-story brick colonial with the late-model truck of the second beekeeper parked out in front. Both men were standing by the truck talking. It was 8:40 A.M.
Winter/Spring 2012
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