You’d be hard pressed to have never heard a story like this. Someone inspects something they need not be inspecting, this leads to a leap of extrodinary faith in the name of curiosity. The end result? Chaos.

This is what I’m reminded of when I think of Bee Story, a gleeful attempt at a better tomorrow only to be thwarted by nature and common sense, and its not even that detailed of a story; mainly because it needs no details in order to give an accurate description of who my father is.

Did you know you can order bees over the internet? I did not know this, and frankly was stunned by that more than anything when it came to The Bee Story. My father ordered a box and had it delivered UPS (I assume he shelled out the extra money over priority mail because its harder to convince a government employee to handle a box labeled “Caution: Bees”) and it came packaged almost the same way any typical package would. I say “almost” because the fine people who make a living in the bulk insect retail business are wise enough to foresee the typical problems that would stem from inserting a bee hive into a cardboard box, taping it up an leaving it in the hands of a hands free transit system.

The whole reason for ordering bees over the internet is so that you can have a garden that better flourishes with the help of little worker bees flying about, which is exactly the reason my father ordered them. They arrived on a Friday, but he didn’t get around to opening the box until Saturday. Saturday came and he didn’t get around to handling the package, a specially designed box with a pull tab and a dedicated plug for releasing the bees slowly into the garden, until about a half an hour before church.

“Where the hell is your father,” my mom said adjusting the same earrings she wears every day, but are still her special ones just for church.

“I’m not sure,” was my usual reply, since the truth is, I wasn’t. Dialing up my phone to call his cell after an abrupt order from my mom, I was jolted by a mechanical buzz on the chair next to me. My father had performed his self believed genius move to postpone ridicule, he hid his phone on the seat of a pushed in chair the same way a dimwitted dog hides a bone under a shrub.

While my mom and I were wondering where on the property my dad could be, he was in the garden negotiating a deal with the bees in the same way the government negotiates with terrorists. Using extreme force in a fit of impatience my dad grabbed a stick and began flogging the insolent bee box.

It’s a usual reaction to want to immediately reap the benefits from a package you’ve sent away for, but common sense tells the rule that when you’re dealing with bees the best strategy is to let them do their own thing. This is not the path of logic my dad took.

I began telling this story talking about simple lessons learned because I wanted to set a precedent about the idea of what children are taught when they are young, be it from books, teachers or the experience of just being young and foolish. Surely everyone knows a story of a kid who swung a bat at a beehive and was sent running for the nearest body of water. Or, perhaps knows someone who’s allergic and came within an inch of their life after not watching their steps in the woods, cementing the universal rule of thumb. Do not mess with bees. They get angry and they sting you, that’s just what the laws of both man and nature have agreed upon. My dad, however does not believe in this notion. Excited to immediately see the initial workings of a flourishing garden, my dad beat a beehive with a stick demanding they get off their lazy venom sacs and hit the garden. But, like a pack of blue collar workers with a good union, they revolted. The bludgeoning sent a swarm of drones after my father, chasing him halfway to the house. There he was, my father running across 6 acres of central Jersey countryside from the mistake he had just dug himself into.

As though a grown man, behaving like a dare-eager 9 year old wasn’t enough, he had the cheek to act betrayed by his royalty supervised insect employees. “The little bastards chased me all the way here,” he guffawed as he walked up the steps of the back porch, “I can’t believe they did that.” All I could do was give him a look of ambivalence and shrug my shoulders.

“You shouldn’t have given in the first time they went on strike, now they think they own you.” This statement wasn’t nearly as funny when I said it since I wasn’t aware he had just attempted a coup de tat with the Royal Empire of Apis mellifera. Later on I would realize just what caused my dad to be panting in anxiety as he came up to the house, but for the time being my mom hustled him inside and upstairs to get ready for church.

Bee Story is a five minute episode that strangely enough ends at about the same time as it begins. It’s the simplest story to tell because no matter what way you try to tell it, everyone knows what happens. It’s as though Wily E. Coyote never had the road runner in his life and he were just running around the desert strapping rockets to his back and flying towards cliff sides. No one would tune in because everyone would know what happens no matter what, the Coyote is going to hurt himself, duh. It’s the same way with The Bee Story in that when you say “My dad swatted a bee hive with a stick” the end result will be that he gets stung at least once and is forced to flee the scene. The remarkable thing is, it’s not a kid invading dangers personal bubble, it’s a grown man, a husband and a father of two grown men of his own, and a successful business owner, who says to himself “stupid bees,” finds the nearest long hard object and does what cavemen did to solve their problems.

Share this: Twitter

Facebook

Like this: Like Loading...

A young man tries to jump his bike over a line of brave friends, or a garbage bag is given the mantle of a parachute, turning hopes and excitement for stories to come into an anecdote that some will say need not be told again.