Bees

My son and my dad have an interesting relationship with bees.  From the time Pace was born, he has loved bees.  He loved to see pictures of bees, hear bees, watch bees on T.V., and draw them. 

 

But to see a bee in person, well, that was the end all bee all!

In fact, he might have become a certified bee keeper if not for a traumatic beetrayal when he was stung by a bee he thought was his friend.  The sting did not hurt as much physically as it did emotionally beecause he loved bees and couldn’t understand how a bee could hurt him.  Grammy put a penny on the sting to draw out the poison but it didn’t take away the sting of innocence beetrayed.  From then on, he carried on a love/hate relationship with bees, he still loved to look at bees but from a good distance away.  One more sting on the Kindergarten playground permanently changed his relationship with bees from love/hate to bees are not my friend!  Nature can be so cruel.

Then there’s my dad.  He has never expressed much feeling one way or the other about bees.  However, there is an occasional clue that they may not be his favorite insects.

 

 

Dad didn’t say a word about being stung, but it became obvious as his lip blew up like a balloon.  It happened during a particularly stressful time of preparation for a long and tedious back surgery to remove cancer from Mom’s spine so it would probably have gone altogether unnoticed except for his suddenly enormous upper lip. 

The occurrence didn’t seem to affect his previous indifference to bees and he continued to live his life at peace with them.

Last Monday Dad found a round, black, fuzzy piece of lint on his bed.  He picked it up and threw it away.  On the way to the trash, it stung him.  He came out holding his finger complaining that he had been stung by a fuzz.  Mom looked at it, got a penny, and hoped he didn’t die of some sort of bizarre fuzz-sting reaction.  Later, I asked Dad what happened.  He explained, “Well, to the best of my recollection of the incident, I think I must have been working in the yard when a cold bee found refuge in my warm pant pocket.  When I laid down on my bed, it must have been trapped between me and the bedspread.  When I got up, it apparently stumbled around trying to recuperate when I came upon it.  I thought it was a fuzz but the prompt sting assured me that it was not.  Although I had provided it with shelter, it must not have been willing to repay my earlier kindness for when I picked it up, it promptly pierced my finger with its venom.”  This is how my dad tells me he has been stung by a bee.

I think my son and my dad have learned that bees are not loyal companions but a force to be reckoned with!