To Bee or Not To Bee by Curt Hinkle
Every time I slid the little tin door on the little tin shed, a number of honey bees would appear and fly agitated, mock threatening trajectories around me. I was emptying the shed because I planned on renting a Bobcat excavator to dig out my severely sloping backyard. It would have to move. The shed had a slapdash porch made from an odd plywood pallet thrown down in front and cribbed up at the corners with rocks.
I emptied the little tin shed, and admit having swatted at the bees a number of times, thinking 'what the hell is it with these bees?' The next morning I raised the odd plywood pallet and discovered seven combs and slow motion residents waiting helpless, for the sun to warm their abode and them. I admired their engineering, bid them good morning in a low droning voice, and lowered the odd plywood pallet back into place.
It was on the bottom of this pallet that the queen had set up court. It had been an excellent choice — not much two-legger traffic, good access, and a nice view. It had been an excellent choice until I came up with the plan to dig out the severely sloping backyard.
The hive would have to move. I looked up bee removal in the yellow pages. At the first number I called, the guy said, "I'll spray em. Spray em with ValKane. That usually does the trick."
"Kill them?" I asked.
"Ya, spray em. If I don't get em all the first time, I'll spray em again."
"I want to move them, not kill them" I said, and thanked him for his time.
At the second number I called, I was informed that, "they are dormant and slow in the morning when it's cold. Just squash them all with a flat shovel." I sang my song again.
I called a bee keeper, thinking he would be happy to adopt a hive. Isn't that what they do? He told me that he could take them, but he would have to feed them all winter. And he ticked off all the possible things that could be wrong with the hive or that could go wrong with the hive.
"Why don't you just make the little bastards get their own food? That's what they are already doing," I said.
"These are wild bees, he informed me." His tone of voice let me know that I maybe wasn't the dumbest ass in the world, but I wasn't far from it.
Another person listed in the yellow pages complained about the cost of buying a hive box. I, in my ignorance, had never even considered what a responsibility and liability bees could be.
Yet another call connected me with an alarmist whose zeal in fear mongering was only diminished, I'm sure, by his aluminum foil helmet. "They may have cross bred with Killer Bees — they're coming up from the south — be here any day now — they're already in Chino."
I hung up, keened mournfully and ran with my arms in the air. This could be the portent of crop failures, of plague and pestilence, Armageddon. "Repent, before it's too late," I wailed, then laughed.
I researched buying a bee hive, bee hat and gloves. I was doing pretty good so far, I had raised the odd plywood pallet many times now and hadn't been stung even once. I imagined I was The Bee Whisperer, but then reminded myself not to be distracted, to keep my eye on the ball, to remember that the goal is to drain the swamp, and ignore the fact that I am up to my ass in alligators.
I placed an ad on Craigslist and had several respondents I deemed to be incompetent. Then I was contacted by one who seemed to care about the bees and, albeit admittedly a neophyte keeper, had the requisite tools and materials necessary, as well as a mentor friend. They came one morning and surveyed the hive and we discussed the logistics of moving it.
By now the bees seemed used to the gentle raising of the odd plywood pallet and the observation of their beautiful construction amid busy comings and goings. We agreed on an early morning Saturday for the commencement of "Bee Day."
The keeper and his mentor showed up right on time. They brought a spanking new hive box with them, and talked at length of where to position it, how to handle the odd plywood pallet to accomplish the transfer with the least disruption. The keeper broke out and donned a new pair of gloves and a new bee hat with new netting. We were all in long sleeves and buttoned up.
He fired up a new smoker and got it going. Like a well-choreographed dance sequence, I raised the odd plywood pallet. The mentor stood by the new hive box. I could smell its white pine in the morning chill. The keeper puffed the colony with smoke and already cold lethargic bee sentries were lulled to dopiness.
At one point, the keeper lost confidence for just a moment and tried to hand the smoker to the mentor. "Dude, you're the one with all the gear on", was all it took though, to get him back on track.
The combs broke loose almost as a unit and were placed carefully. "Good job. I'm sure we got the queen. Very nicely done," the mentor said as he put the lid on the new hive box.
I do not think a single bee was harmed, though, undoubtedly, a few were left behind. My bees moved to Geneseo.
Paradise in Pain by Elizabeth Buckner
Paris: cite magique, temple des amoureux
Anon. circa 1901
Stranded thirty days
in Paris, City of Light
atmosphere suffused with amour
heart broken
body bruised
face half frozen
relationship
shaped by rape
abandoned by
abusive lover
empty pockets
waiting for a way
home
Sheltered by kindly Mme. Janvier
in her petite fourth floor apartment
Befriended by Jean Luc
her handsome twenty-one year old son
during hazy days of autumn
chilly air and nightly frost
days turn colder
year grows older, darker
matches my mood
Anxious, I walk daily to a park
watch children play
mothers chat, lovers love
others walk dogs, read books
beneath rows of horse chestnut trees
whose large palmate leaves
change color each night:
green bleeds to yellow
yellow goes gold
gold turns orange
orange to red
red to magenta
magenta to maroon
maroon to black
fall in great profusion
bruise grass
stir in breezes
drive pain deeper into flesh
and dark corners of my psyche
Gardeners rake
leaves into pyres
and burn them
I inhale the acrid smoke
(of unrequited amour)
until the last leaf falls
then I go home
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