First Draft

Mind Your Own Beeswax

I hate bees. I always have and I think I always will. I hate their black and yellow color scheme. I dislike their beady dark eyes. I loathe the sound their wings make. Most of all, I despise their landing techniques. They hover over me like they want to play with my fears and emotions. They use this sort of I’m-not-touching-you tactic. All of it makes me queasy. All of it makes me angry. All of it makes me hate them. I’ll top it all off with this surprising factor: I have never been stung before.

I have never even been bit by a bee. I’ve seen others get bit and stung before. I always watch from distance; I never get too close. I do not think I need to be stung by a bee to hate them. I hear enough horror stories about how awful those things can be.

The other aspect of it, is I do not even know if I am allergic to bees. Normally, people get these things tested, but not me. My parents never found this information useful. To be honest, I think they had their doubts. Why spend the money if we are 99.9% sure that we are right? I figure, I will cross that bridge when I get to it.

The hatred goes back as far as I can remember. There is an old stigma that parents can place their fears and opinions into their children. That is precisely what happened. I do not remember how old I was when I first heard “The Bee Story.” I just know I grew up with it. This story always comes up for family gatherings or parties. Since it happened to my mother, and she enjoys making people laugh, she tells it whenever she is given the opportunity.

I remember one specific time laughing myself into a headache. We are at the fine arts and crafts festival in Brookdale Park, Bloomfield, NJ. I walk with my mother down the cement path that is tailored with white tents covering magnificent pieces of handmade art. As we walk along, we meet with my friend and her mother who tell us to make a day out of it. We are blessed with a beautiful day. I look at my phone, 79 degrees. The sun is shining through the trees that block enough of the sun that I do not have to put sunglasses on. The four of us walk up and down the fair, stopping as we please. There is a stand next to a tent that sells handmade belt buckles. My mother, a connoisseur of accessories, stops and mentions that we have to take a look. As we admire the hand crafted buckles, a small, yellow jacket arises from underneath one of the buckles. I watch as my mother screams loud enough for all of not only Bloomfield, but also all of the greater Essex County area to hear. She tries to escape from the bee, and I watch in laughter. My friend and her mother had seen this side of her before. I wait with them as she settles down.

We move off to a safe side of the park. This area is shadier and there is not a bee in sight. We all stand in the shade and my mom begins to retell her horror story. The story why I hate bees.

“You know why I hate them, don’t you?” She asks all of us. I hear this story all the time but I could not help but wonder if my friend and her mom have ever heard it.

“I was about five years old when it happened. My grandfather built a house in the outskirts of Pennsylvania. It was a huge six-bedroom home with a wrap-around, screened-in porch. It was white with green trimming, and outside there were wooden steps lined with bushes. We always saw bees in there. Anyway, they loved hunting and invited their friends and families to go with him. My father had about two hundred acres of land out there. As kids, we had no concept of this… until we walked to the neighbor’s house with my father’s friend Mr. Capata.”

I appreciate a good story, especially when it is told by my mother. Her delivery is something I try to imitate when telling her stories. I remember as a kid, I would tell people to just have my mom tell them to understand how funny it is. Maybe it is a skill that I will develop with time. Still, my hatred for bees at this moment is greater than my dreams of being a good storyteller.

“My father wanted us to head over to the neighbors house, because my father wanted to talk to him about something… I can’t remember what exactly. So we walked over these two acres of land and some of it was in the woods. As we went on- you know my brother Joey? Oh God, what an instigator. There was a big log in the middle of our path. He jumped over it and cleared it.”

My Uncle Joey is one of my mother’s older brothers. He pretty much has a personality of his own. Truly a one of a kind fellow. By one of a kind, I mean he has all of the qualities and talents that make even the most patient of people want to rip their hair out. As many pranks as my Uncle Joey plays on me, I still like him more than bees.

“So Joey, the pain that he was, turned to me and said, ‘Debbie, I bet you can’t do what I just did.’ I go, ‘shut up Joey, sure I can.’ We went back and forth until my father turned around to tell us to ‘shut the hell up.’ Then, he told me to do it if I thought I could. I called him a haunt, and then he stuck his tongue out at me.”

Now comes the part in the story where she described herself in this situation, I can read her like a book. I know (and still hang on) every word. I laugh at all the right parts and cringe when one should. I know I have let this story become a part of who I am. It is embedded in my brain… every single time I see a bee.

“So the difference between Joey and I was that he was 9. Four years does a lot to a kid, you know? We were both chunky as kids, but he was taller and definitely more athletic. I basically just told him I could do it to shut him up. I should have known that he would try to make me. I was short and my legs were [and still are] like tree trunks. I dreaded going over this log. But, I sucked it up; I walked back to give myself a running start, held my breath, took off, and cleared it!”

Here it comes, the climax of the story. The awful reason why I hate bees. The fear that this story has over me is ridiculous. It’s true, I laugh and poke fun, because it is a comical story. But, somewhere deep down, I am a slave to “The Bee Story.” Who am I? An active listener? A notetaker for my mom? An audience member? I cannot help but indulge myself in every word from this moment on…

“...yeah, cleared it and landed right into a bush on the other side of the friggin’ log! I really hurt my back because I fell right on it. Seconds later, I realized that I landed in a bush that had a bee’s nest in it! I kid you not, hundreds of them swarmed me. They bit me, they stung me all over my body. I could not get them away. I swatted and swatted until I couldn’t feel my arms anymore from all the stings. My father turned around and screamed, ‘Debbie, don’t move!’ I screamed back, bees flying in my mouth, ‘Daddy, whyyyyy?!’ He and my brother swatted and tried to direct their attention somewhere else. Mr. Capata was nowhere to be found. But, what the hell? I was five. How was I supposed to know that?! I figured that he was trying to kill me off. I was the youngest of four so that made more sense than standing still to be friggin’ bee food!”

PFFFFT. That’s all I can get out at this point. Thankfully, the way my mother tells this part of the story, she make it sound more hysterical than gruesome. I can’t help but burst into laughter when she mimics herself with the “Daddy, whyyy?!” comment. Laughter has always helped me calm down my hatred. I don’t even hate that many things. I’m a really nice person. I’m nice to everyone… except bees.

“The bees finally head out and we walked back to the house. I think i said ‘Ow’ with every step I took. My father and Joey looked back at me stung from head to toe and they snickered towards each other. When we finally got back to the house, my mother answered the door. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ My father told her what happened. We spent the rest of the afternoon picking stingers out from all over me...such joyful memories.”

         I can imagine the hatred my mother has for bees. I can see why she is so afraid. I understand why she would rather knock over an entire picnic table to escape the wrath of a yellow jacket (which has been done before). I think I would do the same.

“We finally got all of the stingers out of me and we counted them; thirty-six. They stung me thirty-six times. That’s why I’m a little on the heavier side, you know? I’m still swollen from the bites. Anyway, I went into the living room closet to find the bocce ball set to play with. I opened it and saw the balls and thought that this would be something nice for me to do to calm my nerves. I loved bocce ball as a kid, and my oldest brother Bobby came to the house and told me to set everything up downstairs. He said to set up the game and that he’d come down soon. All of a sudden, as I put the first ball down on the floor, I got this annoying itch behind my ear. I took two fingers on my right hand to scratch it and two dead bees fell out from my hair behind my ear. I let out a scream like an axe murderer chased me. It was like the final straw; just when I thought I got rid of the bastards, too! My brother Bobby ran downstairs when he heard my scream to make sure I was alright. After all these years, that scream is one of the few family events he remembered.”

That is when I cringe. The dead bee part gets me every time. I can only show sympathy for my mother when she tells this story. To this day, when a bee comes near her, I always say, from a distance of course, “Daddy whyyy?!” If I were her, I would hate them...but that’s none of my beeswax. We continue to walk through the rest of the park. I pray those black and yellow pest will leave us alone.