“Sorry I’m a little late,” I said as I closed the car door, my camera over one shoulder and a notebook and pen in hand. “I had a hard time getting out of the house this morning—had to tend to the kids, you know.” “Oh, that’s all right,” said Tony. He nodded at the camera and notebook. “You’ll be too busy for those, though. We thought we’d let you hold the bucket under the swarm. It’s just next door, in the backyard of the house next to mine.”
“Sure. . . okay.” I smiled while my mind raced in regard to the magnitude of the comment—as in, this changes everything! Tony led me to his tidy garage where he had the gear; a veil, rubber gloves, and a white jumpsuit made of paper. All ready for me to put on.
“I got this from the place that makes chips,” he said, hand- ing me the jumpsuit.
Still dazed by my change from observer to swarm- capturing participant, I wasn’t quite with it mentally. My first thought was, huh? Potato chips? A second later I thought, no, you idiot, computer chips.
I took the suit and stepped into it, pulling it easily over my clothes. Yes, I thought, this could be a little Microsoft outfit. I’d never thought of the similarity in dress between beekeepers and chip makers. Then Tony handed me thick orange gloves to put on
while he tied strings around my pants bottoms, making them tight against my boots and bee-entry proof. Tony handed me the pith hat/veil combo and then helped me with the long strings of that too, carefully bringing one under each arm, crossing them in the back, then coming around to the front, tying them around my waist. The experience had a sweetness to it, as if I were a little girl being carefully dressed by her father. Then he took a picture of me standing by his garage and I just felt silly.
“I feel a little overdressed,” I said from behind the veil as I trudged through his front yard. I was a space- girl, a chipmaker, a bona fide bee-person. What about all the stuff I’d learned about the impossibility of being stung?
“No, you’re fine,” Tony said.
We walked to the backyard next door. Tony’s partner and the homeowners, a pleasant-looking middle-aged man and his wife, stood about twenty-five feet away from the pine tree where the swarm had congregated, up on a branch about ten feet off the ground. There were two ladders set up underneath the tree, two five gallon “bee drums” (modified paint buckets with lids) and a shop vacuum. Tony’s grizzled beekeeper friend looked to be wearing the same faded outfit of the evening before, along with rubber gloves and veil. I was puzzled by shop vac until the old- timer explained that he used them in swarm capturing, his own invention.
The homeowners greeted us. They were ready for the show. At some point Tony called me Marsha and I, in another dimension entirely in my bee suit, didn’t notice. The atmosphere behind the veil was dark and isolating, other-worldly, adding to the surrealism of the event. I learned that the swarm came from one of Tony’s two hives. I went to the tree. There it was, the first swarm I’d ever seen, ten feet above my head. It was beautiful. There were actually two clumps, one about the size and shape of a football and one in the same shape, next to it on the branch, about one-quarter the size. Pulsating and java-colored, the bees hung amid fresh green pine needles, lively but relatively quiet. I imagined something larger, something much more menacing. After taking a couple of pictures, I asked the neighbor lady, “Does it bother you at all that there are bee
hives next door?”
“Oh no,” she said. “I give them sugar water.” Her husband smiled in agreement.
era to Tony and followed. 44
The older beekeeper, whom I noticed was called Rev, walked to the tree, ready to begin. I handed my cam- * * *
Tony took my picture, then Rev handed me a bucket and lid. “I’ll get the big clump with my bucket. You Winter/Spring 2012
greenwomanmagazine.com
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