Good Advice, Not Taken

When my son was a baby, my sister gave me a great piece of parenting advice: “If you’re not sure something’s a good idea, don’t do it.” We can argue the general merits or lack thereof some other time, but it’s a good tip to keep in mind should you take up beekeeping.The last time Charlie, Patrick and I suited up and went into one of the hives to check things out, it was a veritable fairyland of bees in there. Everyone doing her job—cute little larvae morphing into bees, workers packing away pollen and honey, queen laying 2,000 eggs a day.

This was a happy hive. So happy, in fact, that our presence didn’t even annoy them. We were in full combat gear, with our veiled hats battened down tight and smoker fully stoked and ready. A few of the girls flew out for a quick inspection, gave us a teensy little thumbs up and went about their business. We never even poofed the smoke at them. It was a Disney beehive.

So in a fit of unwarranted self-confidence this week, I decided to check out the same hive on my own. Without the gear. I mean, sure, experts say you should always wear the bee hat, because a bee up the nose will ruin your day. It won’t do much for the bee’s day either. And you should always have the smoker on hand to keep the girls calm, because hundreds of annoyed bees coming at you can be problematic.

But I’m hopeless with the smoker. As an arsonist I would have been an abject failure. Patrick can toss a handful of pine needles into the thing and have it chugging along in seconds. For me, it either refuses to even smolder, or it flames up like napalm, scorching everything in its path before burning out in mere seconds. I once actually set a bee on fire with the smoker. Even store-bought smoker fuel does not light for me. Ever. My husband finds this extremely amusing. I do not. It makes me feel like such a helpless girl.

But who needs a smoker with a Disney beehive? I was only going to take a quick peek. It will be FINE, I thought. These are my bees, after all. They know me! They love me!

Turns out, not so much. The bees were unimpressed with my confidence, and in a much worse mood than on our last visit. As soon as I took the cover off the box, they erupted like lava out of Vesuvius. I couldn’t put the cover back on without squashing dozens of bees, so I took the only reasonable course of action. I ran. I hid in the house, nursing three stings and fretting about the open hive and all the predatory creatures that were certainly at this very second robbing the girls of their life’s work.

I also took a few moments to ponder where I had gone wrong. What had happened to turn them from happy cartoon bees to surly teenager bees in just a couple of weeks? Maybe they had been hitting the valerian and chamomile last time around and just couldn’t get a good mad going. Maybe they just didn’t feel like having company today.

Anyway, suitably chastened, I did what helpless girls do and called a man for help. To my endless mortification, Patrick calmly suited up, got the smoker going in about 10 seconds, calmed the girls, closed up the hive, shook his head at me in disgust, and went on with his day.

Note to self: Learn to work the smoker. And remember to wear the hat.