As the long, hot, humid days of summer drag on I'm reminded of bee stings. The one thing that was certain each summer for me was getting at least one bee sting if not two or three. I loved to go bare footed, or mostly bare footed with my flip flops. Our yard was full of clover; bees make a lot of honey from clover blossoms; and I usually managed to step on one or more of our honey bees as I ran through the yard. Somehow the connection between clover and bees never occurred to me until it was too late. Being very allergic to bee stings, one sting on the foot could set me up for five to seven days of total misery. Mama was certain that a good wad of chewing tobacco placed on a new sting would "draw the poison out". It never did. We never seemed to make that connection either. Summer after summer the bees did their work while I continued in my blissful ignorance of the danger. Actually our summer yard had two major risks, bees and fresh chicken poop. Neither work well with bare feet.
Our yard was full of honey bees because Uncle Rec, short for Rector, had convinced my father to be an apiarist, or beekeeper. Uncle Rec kept bees and was a good salesman for anything he believed in strongly. So Daddy got the gear for beekeeping: the hat with attached veil that tied around an upturned shirt collar, the smoker that looked like an accordion which burned old rags and briefly paralyzed the bees while the honey was being removed from the hive. He also got special gloves that tied over his shirt sleeves. Uncle Rec said that no special pants or shirts were needed if you were careful to use pants and shirts made from thick and strong fabric. Bees could not sting through thick fabric. Uncle Rec somehow managed to also convince my father that he could be a good apiarist if he just relaxed and appeared confident when he was working with the bees. Daddy bought it all and remained confident during the 'lessons' when Uncle Rec joined Daddy as they robbed the hives together. I watched from inside the screened in porch of our house and was amazed at Daddy's confidence. I thought he was so brave!
Eventually Uncle Rec said Daddy could manage this on his own. He gave Daddy the recommended 'robbing schedule' when the bees could do without some of their honey and he wished him luck. Daddy got the hang of it, sorta. He could add the artificial cone to the hives. He learned the three honey seasons and the correct amount of honey to remove without starving the bees. The piece Daddy never seemed to get was the part about appearing confident and relaxed when working with the bees.
Robbing the bees was the hard part because it had to be done during the warmer seasons of the year when the bees are most active. During cooler seasons the bees were not very active and usually not good at stinging. For many summers I watched Daddy rob the bees. Mama and I dreaded the days when Daddy announced that he was going to work with the bees because he appeared as apprehensive as we were.
After he got all of his gear on, he would fire up the smoker after over-stuffing it with fabric. At the point when he removed the top layers of the white hives there were moments when we could not see Daddy at all for the smoke. From where we watched he was not visible through the thick cloud that enveloped him. Not only were the bees temporarily paralyzed, but Daddy was stumbling around almost as paralyzed as the bees. We held our breaths and eagerly waited for the ordeal to be over. When Daddy finally emerged from the smoke there was nothing triumphant about his walk or behavior. He practically ran back to the house. Usually he somehow managed to collect his tools, the pans of honey, and to stumble back to the screened porch. Always a few lesser paralyzed bees chased him to the door. The task now was to get Daddy in the house with the honey and without the accompanying bees. It was a very tense ordeal for all of us. While Daddy never said he was afraid of the bees, he didn't have to because you could see it all over his body.
It was a red letter summer when I overhead Daddy tell Uncle Rec that he didn't care much for beekeeping. Uncle Rec never bothered to comment.
Patsy Hatfield Lawson shares stories about her Appalachian heritage with corporations, non-profits, assisted living facilities, museums, and private events. www.patsyhatfieldlawson.com Visit her website for more information and available dates.
