Art Is Good

Standing next to an old open barn, full of curious contents. Were we on a farm? To the onlooker in the nearby window, peeping out or the silhouette in the dark, behind the fence–we were aliens, abducting an unsuspecting woman. She had met at least one farmer that night. I don’t know exactly what type of pine tree the bees were gathered in, but the sweet aroma was most assuredly alluring. I can see why the bees would want to be there. The truck lights and many hands make quick work of it. Jolt. Jolt. And thousands of winged wonders are boxed. Down the ladder and across the way, like a waitress balancing too many drinks. I might have inhaled all of the air as I watched the box wobble at the end of out reached arms. Woah. Woah. Woah. All good. We are in our 3rd year of beekeeping and I got my first sting. Two bees in the suit pocket where only my hands should be. I definitely cursed–a quick pinch! Not painful. I was stung through the thinner fabric within the pocket. An itchy whelp now exists where my boast of “no stings” had resided. Why did the bees insist on cramming themselves into the least convenient crevice in their 3 mile radius? Down the road. Home again. Stacked out in the darkness. They should do fine here. Exhausted, but feeling good about the day, it is time to retire. Upon disrobing-my downfall reveals itself- a delicate bottle of lemon oil–there was bee lure in my suit pocket. Apparently it worked for at least 2 bees.