My husband had a long weekend off from work and also had a mile long "to do" list to go with the extra day off. Friday started off a little slow and he just kind of "putzed" around (not sure if putzed is a real word in anyone's dictionary but his) until the afternoon.
I noticed midday that there were some bees starting to enter my husband's work shop. Chuck's a beekeeper and keeps his extra bee boxes and equipment in the front of his shop and a few bees will go in and check out the smell of the bee boxes then leave. These bees didn't leave. As it was getting dark I asked my husband if the bees shouldn't be getting back to their hives before dark. They should be. Then I noticed there were even more of them trying to get out of closed windows. He just shut the bees in for the night so they'd be safe.
The next morning he opened the building to let the bees out but they did not want to come out, they seemed to have found a new home. By noon the bee count went from 50 to hundreds of bees going in and out of the very building he had wanted to work in all of his long weekend.
It seems one of his hives had split--taken their new queen--then found new digs in a bee box in his workshop. The only way to enter that building now was to wear a bee suit--a hot, heavy bee suit and head gear that makes you look like an astronaut. If I were a bee I'm thinking a giant white astronaut coming at me in a menacing way would make me pull the bee attack alarm. Nope, it doesn't. They just ignore it and go on their merry bee ways.
Night 2--my husband closes his workshop full of bees to keep them safe. The next morning is church, then my husband comes home to get into his astronaut suit. I literally could hear the roar of the bees from my house as soon as he opened his workshop door.
Cats were running, dogs headed for cover--it was an all out bee frenzy as the very ticked off bees were making their ransom demands known: 1)We want this bee box 2)We want honey to eat (we're too lazy to find nectar) 3)No more astronauts--next one that comes through this door is toast. If our ransom demands are not met, Pumpkin, the only cat still in this building, will become 1 with the bees (in other words, sleep with the fishes). What can I say? We met their demands.
Little did these little hijackers know, we had a plan too. As soon as it got almost dark (when the bees go in their box for the night) we were going to relocate the very bee box they were so enamored with to its rightful place on the farm.
Chuck donned the astronaut suit. I did not. I was already hot, sweaty, mosquito repellanted to death and was in no mood to put on an even hotter suit of clothes. Besides, the last time I got all suited up to move a hive I never saw even 1 bee. I was not trying to be "macho"--if a woman can be--I just didn't see the need to put on a bee suit. So, we put the bee box on our farm gator and off we went to the other side of the farm.
All went well as the box was being placed on its stand. Then the astronaut opened the bee hive entrance and all bee hell broke loose. Chuck was covered with bees and yelled for me to head for the hills in the gator. Not that he was going to get hurt with that astronaut suit, gloves, boots, etc--the bees wouldn't be able to touch him.
I hesitated as I saw the bees all over him--my first instinct was to go towards him to help. But, something I learned years ago in the beekeeping world--and something you will want to burn into your memory for all time is: If the astronaut is waving his arms at you it does not mean "Hello, glad to see you". It means, loosely translated, "Get the heck out of dodge!"
So I did...
The astronaut walked behind me and, as he did, the bees went back to their hive. All but 5 or 6 of them. They wanted the astronaut to die. Remember their ransom demand, "No more astronauts"! They remembered it too.
I, however, was not an astronaut. And all that sweat and bug spray did not make me smell beelike, neither did it make me invisible to bees. Quite the opposite. As Chuck walked past me with his 5-6 bee companions clinging mercilessly to his suit, 1 of them decided I should die too. It attacked me with a fury few humans have known, then dove under my shirt and made its, "I may not kill you but I'll die trying" high pitched sound that is unmistakeable to man or beast even if they've never heard it before.
This is where the entertainment of the farm animals began...
I'm not afraid of getting stung. I've been stung before. But there are just certain places I'd rather not be stung. I vigorously shook my shirt out (all the while telling the bee I was its friend) hoping somehow it would understand my alien murmurings. It didn't. The "I want to kill you" sound was at a fever pitch so I upped my game. I did the Watusi, the Mashed Potato, the Jerk--anything I could do to get that bee out of my shirt. Yes, I did...all the while trying not to kill the bee. Remember, I can't kill things even if they want to kill me.
Within seconds the bee was safely removed and all was well. No one had seen me, thank goodness...
Then I looked up and saw 23 sets of eyes transfixed on me: Sheep, Livestock Guard Dogs and 2 rescue Goats were standing statue still watching mom dance and "sing".
Chuck had stayed far enough away from me as to not attract any more bees but close enough to see that I was ok. I had just performed a "So You Think You Can Dance Routine" (that no one else could touch), for their viewing pleasure. And, it seemed to either terrify the animals so much they were afraid to move (after all, they might be the next to be "danced" with) or put them in some sort of paralyzing hypnotic trance.
I'll never know what they were thinking but I 'm pretty sure I heard the goats snickering as I took a much deserved bow and went on my way...
Jackie Deems
Shepherdess Blog
Copyright 2011
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