May 2, 2011
The bees have arrived. They came in boxes, nah, hives, this afternoon. We have four. And they’re green. Which is nice as they blend in with nature. This is all I know about them. I am not their caretaker. They are owned by a very nice Russian man. He gets stung. I get the honey.
Our bee farmer arrived today, in a small car. Somewhere, hidden inside, he had these four hives. An apiarian clown car. That’s a technical term. I’m learning the lingo. Like EpiPen. And swarm.
I’ll be the first to admit, I’m scared of bees. Not because I’m allergic, per se, but because getting stung hurts. And one could become allergic at any moment. It’s the same reason I don’t eat peanuts on an airplane. I’ve seen those stories about people smelling shrimp and then dying from an allergic reaction. Does this makes sense? Probably not. But I’m crazy. And so are bees. They buzz around like a gaggle of 12-year-old girls at the roller rink. Looking for boys and drinking Dr. Pepper.
I suppose they have all they need. Water. It’s somewhere. Food. I guess it’s the flowers. Warmth comes from all the beating wings. And comfort? That comes from the queen. I’m assuming as we have 4 beehives, we have 4 queens. And I’ve named them. Changela, RuPaul, Manila, and Jujubee. No doubt they will keep their minions in line. Working the workers and bringing the drones their beer. Let’s hope for a fruitful working relationship. And let’s leave the EpiPen at the pharmacy.