Dad kept bees. I’m not sure he liked bees, or if this was merely another one of those “let’s do this so the boys (I am the second oldest of seven brothers) can learn the merits of hard work” gambits. Or maybe he liked honey as mesquite honey does have its plusses. Whatever the reason, Dad kept bees and that’s why I found myself overseeing an ill-fated operation in the middle of August approximately 31 years ago in southern Arizona. That’s right, I said southern Arizona, in August. For those not in tune to the typical weather patterns in that part of the world, let’s just say that the monsoon weather pattern brings a tad of humidity to the usual triple digits enjoyed during the summers there. So we were hot. And muggy. Not to mention what this weather does to the bees’ disposition.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I was ramrodding an operation. Of beemen. At least what could be loosely termed an operation, in that my crew consisted of two of my least eager (at least in relation to their enthusiasm for bee-wrangling) younger brothers. Dad had entrusted me with this job, probably because I was the oldest at home at the time.
By way of background, I had just returned at twenty one years old from a two year mission for my church to Chile four days prior, and was slated to speak in church the following day. It most certainly would not do for me to receive any bee stings to my youthful visage at this stage in the game. But again, I’m getting ahead of myself.
We had the assignment of collecting the frames from the supers that were typically full of bees from the top to the bottom. In order to drive the bees down into the stand, we would place a lid on top of the stand that was impregnated with butyric anhydride, euphemistically known as “Bee-Go”. Well, sometimes they do, and sometimes they don’t. Especially in the summer heat which makes the bees grumpy. I maintain to this day that my one brother, who was eighteen at the time, didn’t leave the lid on long enough. He maintains otherwise. At any rate, when this didn’t work and we opened the lid, hordes of the little fiends came roaring out of the hive. The puny smoker, filled with the best smoke that matches and high-grade cow manure could provide, couldn’t hold a candle to the territorial instincts of this host of insects bent on protecting their turf.
We hastily closed the lid, leaving it somewhat askew, allowing the bees to stream out at an even faster rate. Faced with this dilemma, a pow wow of the assembled work staff could not come up with a better idea than to grab the whole hive at once, place it in the truck and hope that the wind would chase most of the tiny offenders away. I’m sure I was vociferous in my protestations, but I most likely was out-voted by my two younger siblings, who probably wanted to just head home from the San Pedro Ranch as soon as they could so they could go back to reading Hardy Boy mysteries while pretending to watch the irrigation overflow the ditch banks back at our family farm. What we forgot to take into account was the fact that a hive with four supers full of summertime mesquite and cat claw honey probably weighs over two hundred pounds.
With this fact glaringly missing from our decision tree, the three of us, decked out in full beekeeper’s regalia, proceeded to hoist the hive up a few inches. Upon doing so, I realized in that instant that the majority of the 100,000 bees had NOT been streaming from the top of the hive, but had been cunningly waiting for some useful idiots to do just what was being done-that is, provide them with an opening from the bottom. At this moment, two thoughts came to my mind. First, beekeeping gear does not guarantee 100% success in repelling the critters, and second, I was a running back/defensive back in high school. Knowing the first point led me to quickly ascertain the advisability of a speedy retreat and the second gave me the assurance of my ability to outrun a linebacker/tight end and an offensive lineman. To paraphrase an old line- I don’t have to outrun the bees, just outrun my companions.
Which I did. May it also be noted that the linebacker/tight end was faster than the offensive lineman. So it was that my sixteen year old brother caught the brunt of the bees’ fury and I can still remember him to this day, stumbling down the path away from the bees, futilely swatting at the mass around his head as he lumbered toward us. Not wanting him to bring the spectacle any closer, we frantically pointed at a huge metal water tank that would serve as a refuge from the marauding hordes. He blindly stumbled towards the tank, climbed the eight feet or so to the edge and tumbled in. As he sank towards the bottom, there was a trail of bees that followed him to the bottom of the tank. He eventually resurfaced, with bees and unattached stingers still clinging to his face, head, and neck. Summoning our utmost bravery, we chased the stragglers away and put him into the truck.
The ranch was about 10 miles away from our house and by the time we were a few miles from the scene of the incident, younger brother was starting to lose consciousness. I promptly applied an even hastier retreat in the old farm truck and arrived at the house emergently hoping that Dad was home. He was, and as younger brother stumbled out of the truck and passed out on the grass in our front yard, Dad walked over to the truck and pulled out a vial of epinephrine (who knew?) and a syringe. He calmly injected the erstwhile beekeeper who was up and about in a few minutes. To me this was nothing short of miraculous, as it was likewise to the gaggle of congregated sisters standing on the front porch with their mouths agape and curlers in their hair, readying for the Sabbath on the morrow.
Which reminds me. My sisters may or may not have looked good the following day. My younger brother certainly didn’t, swollen up like a beach ball. But my face, when I spoke in church the next day, why, it was as pristine as that clear, mesquite honey. And twice as sweet. And having a father who was an anesthesiologist prepared for the unforeseen, even more so.
Dr. K
