Bees!

Did you know that Mark and his brother, Seth, used to keep bees? Yeah, back when they were teenagers. They had a hive and the smoker and the funky clothes, all that jazz. I don't know for how long, two years maybe? One day, the bees swarmed and left. And that was the end of that. Except that Mark has been fascinated with bees ever since. And fearless. I guess it's easy to be fearless when you hardly ever get stung. Bees fly into my house just for the privilege of stinging me. Mark can stand in the middle of a swarm, and all they do is tickle his face.

And I mean that. It happened for real. This adventure actually happened in May, but it is so singular I just have to share it. One beautiful Friday afternoon, I was out in the yard with the kids. We were playing and enjoying the lovely weather, and visiting with a friend who had stopped by. Mark pulled in from work - he had taken the afternoon off to be ready for the Fathers/Sons camp-out that night. When he got out of the car, he was on the phone, finishing up some last-minute business. For whatever reason, he looked up. And that is when he spotted the swarm of bees flying overhead and congregating on an outer limb in our huge, old maple tree.

Now, interestingly enough, we know three families here in town who keep bees - it's a happening hobby, apparently - so Mark's first impulse was to call one of them up and ask them if they wanted to pop on over to our place and harvest a bee swarm. Yes, they were interested! A bee swarm - complete with Mrs. Queenie Bee - from the bee supply place is worth almost $100, so if you are a frugal beekeeper, adopting a swarm in need of a hive is an appealing idea. I personally just can't relate. After that, he casually wandered over to where my friend and I were chatting in the front yard, and pointed out the swarm to us...as a matter of interest, mind you. I tell you, Mark doesn't respond to bees like the rest of us.

Well, my friend said a quick good-bye, got into her car and left promptly. If it weren't for all those little phoglets in need of supervision and dinner, I would have left with her. I went through the door on the other side of the house - AWAY from the tree with the bees - and shut the kitchen door and any window that might have a hole big enough to let our new "neighbors" in without permission. And in the house I stayed. With all my kids gathered around me. Even the ones who wanted to go out and look at the ball of bees.

This is the Bee Ball. Can you see it?

Seriously. It was a ball of bees. Like, the size of a basketball. Hanging there at the outside edge of the tree's canopy. Next to the driveway. Right above my van.

Our friends showed up with bee gear. Mark met them out by the driveway - without bee gear - and they looked at the bees and talked about how to get the swarm. It was about twenty feet off the ground, and none of us had a tall enough ladder. Now, I know little-or-nothing about all this bee business. But apparently the Queen is at the center of that ball. The reason they were swarming is they were looking for a new home. And if somehow these bee people could get Her Majesty into a hive box and feeling comfy and cozy in there, the whole swarm would follow her in and set up house, erm, hive.

But what to do, what to do? They tried putting the hive boxes right under the Bee Ball, hoping the Scout Bees would find them and report favorably on such prime real estate. Mark and Darren even baited it with sugar water. And honey, of course! (In my head, the Mother of Small Children quotes Winnie the Pooh: honey!...rhymes with bunny; and bunny rhymes with rabbit. And I like Rabbit, because he used small words like, "How about lunch?" and "Help yourself, Pooh!") My darling Mark just stood there on the lawn. Unadorned with bee gear. Holding a quart bottle of honey in his hands. Totally unconcerned.

But neither the Bee Scouts nor the swarm were in any particular hurry. So something else would need to happen. I don't remember who came up with the idea to shake the tree limb to see if they could wiggle the Bee Ball loose and have them go into the boxes. But out comes the rope.

First, Darren and Mark and Daryl tried lassoing the branch by putting a brick on one end of the rope. That didn't pan out. So Mark shimmied up the tree and out on that limb to hook the rope over it and toss the end down. Remember, folks, he still has nothing except his good looks and inherent charm between him and the bees. Shaking the branch sure stirred up the bees. In fact, the first good yank caused quite the stir. But the bulk of the Bee Ball remained un-budged. Her Majesty the Queen of Bees was secure and unmoved.

I don't remember all the details of the sequence of events, mind you. I was either in the house watching from a window and keeping the kids from going outside to Certain Death by Bee Sting, standing across the street with my camera, watching from my neighbor's driveway, or sitting in the cab of our friends' truck, chewing my nails. But somehow, another bee enthusiast showed up with his gear and his truck, to assist and advise.

My view from my neighbor's driveway - across the street - camera zoomed all the way in.

A big ol' ladder was procured, as you can see, but it didn't have anything to lean against. That idea was abandoned. Eventually, after all the rope wiggling and yanking, that little branch snapped, and fell to the ground.

Down came the bees. They splashed like a dark, thick liquid. And they went everywhere. But they landed on/near the hive boxes, which was good. Someone with beekeeping gear wiped the bees of the branch and into/onto the boxes. Everyone felt pretty confident that they got the Queen. Adventure over. Now we just waited for the rest of the bees to climb on in and make themselves at home.


Here are Darren and Cynthia (sensibly in their bee gear) using the special bee brush to, uhm, brush the bees into the hives.

I did NOT take these pictures. Mark did. I don't remember if he put the honey down before he grabbed the camera.

It was important to get the bees all moved in and comfy, because it looked like it was going to rain. Bees know all about Nature and Weather, of course, and they were going to find a nice dry place before rain. I was eying the louver vents that lead into my attic, not so far from the maple tree. I was really hoping the hives were more attractive to the little bugs.

Darren and Cynthia's son - who had just returned from his mission in Canada - was a little apprehensive about the whole deal. This was a hobby they picked up while he was gone. And their daughter, Amber, was even more unhappy about the bees than I was. I was in their truck with her when the branch broke and the bees hit the ground, and it wasn't 60 seconds before they were everywhere. Including all over the truck. Yes, we had the windows up. But when Cynthia climbed in to check on her Amber and chat with this one, there was a little hitchhiker that followed her in. Both Ambers bailed rapidly and headed for the front door and the safety of the house.

In the end, our friends had to get on with their day. So they propped the hives open, weighed the tops down with bricks, and asked us to call them when all the bees were snug as a bug on the inside.

The afternoon had been spent with the bees, and the activities of the evening (like dinner) needed attention. I don't remember if it rained that night. I don't think so. But the next morning was Sunday. And we all had to walk right under the tree and past the hives to get into the van for the whole Going to Church routine. Yippee.

So, we are all buckled in, and I back out of the driveway, and we are about five blocks from the house when Eliza pipes up that she thinks she just got stung by a bee.

"No, are you sure? Did you see the bee? Where were you when it happened?" She didn't know. she wasn't sure. But it felt like a bee sting, and it looked like a bee sting. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out where she how she could have gotten stung. When we got to Church, I inspected it (yes, I was responsible and did not try to identify it whilst driving) and confirmed it as indeed a bee sting. Some little bee had found a crack or crevice that allowed it to climb into our van, and had spent the night there. Poor Eliza. Cynthia was there in the hall, and she felt so bad for her. We got her into the kitchen, grabbed a wash cloth and some ice, and Eliza iced her arm all through Sacrament Meeting. By Primary, she was fine. Thank Heaven. She handled the whole thing like a trooper. I think she was enjoying the attention, because by Second Hour most of the branch (it's a small branch) had heard about her bee sting, and she kept getting stopped in by concerned members who inquired lovingly about her well-bee-ing.

The End.

No, not really. That afternoon, I was working in the kitchen, when I happened to look out the west window - opposite side of the house from the bees - and saw a huge, long "cloud" of bugs flying past the window, over and around my neighbors yard...just as my neighbor opened his garage and started up the lawn mower. It took a second to register what I was seeing: the bees were swarming again. Apparently Mrs. Queenie-Poo was unhappy about the hives. That, or she never actually moved in. Whichever it was, the bees were moving on.

I had a sudden moment of panic where I envisioned my poor, unsuspecting neighbor being attacked by bees who were offended by his lawn mower, and dying a horrid death. And I felt very responsible. He had no idea about the bees, and we were the ones who had been messing around with the swarm. Could we be held liable in a wrongful death suit? I ran out the door, and over across the alley. I must have looked kind of funny, in my Sunday clothes and "cooking" apron and bare feet. I self-consciously explained what had been happening on the east side of my house, and about the once-again-mobile swarm I had just seen, and suddenly he seemed like it wasn't such an urgent thing for him to mow the lawn anymore.

Having done my neighborly duty, assuaged my conscience, and avoided a lengthy lawsuit and court battle (OK, now I'm just being cheeky and dramatic), I went back to my kitchen and resumed my puttering. I did notice that he closed the garage, and presumably found something more pressing inside, too. And that was it. After all that drama and effort and time spent and bee stings suffered... not to mentioned the amputations suffered by my tree, no one had a hive to show for it.

The End.

Really.