Excerpted from The Nighthawk, a weekly newsletter distributed in senior communities, libraries, and anywhere you’d like to read it.
Letters From Josh, Vol. 97
Collecting Rent
Howdy, folks! I’m scared of bees, and have never been married. It’s not entirely their fault, but then again, once, when on a hike date once with a promising young lady, a bee started buzzing me. I took off running, leaving the insect, my pride, and those chances behind me. (Make of that what you will.)
It’s either commendable or stupid that this year’s activity has been beekeeping. As some of you have read, two hives sit in the shadow of Long Mountain. After knocking me down a peg by stinging me in the face, the bees have been mostly friendly. The summer past tranquilly, the occasional hive inspection and daily feeding completed. “Hello Bees! I’m your sugar daddy! Workin’ hard, or hardly workin’?” (Like most of my comedic efforts, these jokes also fell flat.) Now it was time to harvest the honey. Suddenly, a lifetime of cultural references blended with biological logic, highlighting the hurdle. The bees LIKE their honey. Uh oh.
“Our Father, who art in heaven....” Gloves. Check. Bee suit. Check. Knife to flick stingers off. Check. Pain is Weakness Leaving the Body. “A hush fell over the troops.” Then...“Ready to collect some rent?” I kicked the ATV into gear, and zoomed off towards the bee yard. It was go time. Cue the heavy metal.
We took the hives apart. The honey box stood alone, tilted up, filled with bees. “Do it!” Bob pulled the trigger. The leaf blower roared, and a thousand bees blew out in the artificial hurricane, and swirled back.
If bees could curse... The roar subsided. We scratched our heads as the bees flew thick. “I think it’s backwards. Flip it around” he said. Oh great. The flip was uneventful, although intimidating. ROAR. The rest of the bees shot out in the breeze. “Now!” I hosted the box and covered it with plywood. We had our prize. Oversized bears in white suits we were, Marshmallow people really, were trundling the boxes off to the truck. We had collected our rent.
Inside, frame after frame of gorgeous capped honey was removed, “skinned” with a kitchen knife, and then into the spinner they went. The stainless steel vat was a mini-washing machine of sorts, twirling the honey right out. “Enjoy your ride on the Honey Bear Coaster - please keep your arms and feet inside the car at all times.” Whirrr.
Oh, and the honey. The comb is nature’s chewing gum, a fragrant taste of distilled sunshine, and flowers kissed by starlight. Everyone was in a sugar coma by the time the harvest
was done. I went back outside to refill the bee feeders, and to thank them. I’m still a little jumpy, but I’m a fan. They might be bad wingmen, but...what magical little critters.
- Josh