Bees When You're Six

As a small child, I was terrified of bees.  My grandfather, who is generally stoic, unflappable, and courageous, once jumped off a ladder onto the front stoop when he was cleaning the 2nd story gutters because wasps came out of the ivy that was growing on the front of the house.  I was only 3 or 4, but I will never forget seeing him laying on his back on the bricks while the paramedics packed him onto the stretcher.   I also remember *several* summer car trips to the beach where we immediately pulled over upon realizing that a bee or wasp was in the car.  We'd open the doors (the windows were already down because of our family's disdain for air-conditioning, which is how they got in there in the first place), get out of the car, and wait for the insect to fly out before resuming our trip.

During the first few summers after my mother married my step-father, he would take the family to Quogue on New York's Long Island.  It's where I learned to ride a bicycle, learned the F*** word, and lost my fear of bees.

It's hard to eat orange popsicles or watermelon slices (two of my favorite summertime treats) when you're six without getting them all over yourself.  Hell, it's still hard.  Of course this means that all manner of bees and yellow-jackets will be attracted to your sweet succulent child flesh.  This does not mean that they want to sting you--far from it.  They just want to lap up the sugary drippage that has congealed to a sticky crust on your arms, your knees, and down the front of your yellow glitter-flake-iron-on ET shirt.

photo credit http://www.mommypotamus.com/

True to six-year-old girl fashion, whenever a bee would get to close to me, or god forbid, actually land  in an attempt to gather the high-fructose ambrosia and bring it back to its hive, all manner of histrionic arm flailing and shrieking would ensue.

It was not attractive.

My neighbor friend Gardner (who, at the time, I totally thought was kind of weird because his family wouldn't have a tv in their house) and I were playing in the cul-de-sac.   Mom was in a beach-chair in the grass next to the street, tanning (this was 1983 after all) and reading her book.  It being typically hot and humid, we had some red plastic party cups of lemonade sitting in the grass, next to Mom's baby oil.  But when I picked mine up and was about to take a sip, I noticed a yellow-jacket circling the rim.

"BEEEEEE!  UHHHH!  UHHHH!  MOM!!  MOM!!  THERE'S A BEEEEEEEEE!! A BEEEEEE!!"

I slung the cup onto the asphalt, twitched and shook like I was going into an epileptic spasm, and ran in a few circles.  My ultimate finishing move was to cower behind my mother and plug my mouth with my thumb.

I was behind her, looking for bees through the slightly mildewed blue and white faded plastic tubing of the lounge chair, but as an adult, I can only imagine the extremity of the eye-rolling expression that she must have made.

With a sigh, she put down the book and stood up.  "Katherine, get up."

"But Moooooooooommm.  The bee was in my lemonade."

"Katherine, get up.  Come with me."  I hesitated.  "Come on," she held out her hand.

Slowly I put my lemonade covered hand in hers and got to my feet.  We walked into the street, and she got down on eye-level with me, and spoke very slowly and very calmly.

She gave me the standard old line,  "Katherine, the bees do not want to hurt you.  They are more scared of you than you are of them."  She held my gaze.  "They will only hurt you if they think you are threatening them.  If you go crazy and try to swat at them or get scared when they land on you, that's when they will sting you."

And then...

It was like mom magic.  Or divine timing.  Or something like that.  At that moment, I looked down at a tiny tickle on my arm, and there it was--a bee crawling on the lemonade.

Somehow, miraculously, I had absorbed my mother's words, and instead of turning into a shrieking berzerker, I stayed very still and watched it take a few more steps and then simply fly off.  No stinging, no massive swarm attack, nothing.  And even more miraculously... MY MOTHER WAS RIGHT.  WHAT!?!?!?  How often does that happen in a six year old's mind?  No chewing gum in bed?  Mom's so stupid.  Don't take a sip off that hot chocolate yet?  How dumb could she possibly be?  And yet...how could this bee?  It didn't sting me?!?  In fact, it was kind of pretty--all yellow and black and fuzzy.  And the sensation of having the bee on me was actually gentle.

And after that, I simply wasn't afraid of them any more.  No more epic freak-outs.  And when other kids swatted and jumped around in terror, I got to tell them about my experience.  I don't know if anyone else stopped being afraid of bees because of what I told them, but maybee...

So uhhh...I guess this is where I say thanks Mom :-)