Honey Bee Bricolage

When he was a small boy, or so the story goes, he visited a jewelry store. There, on a velvet cushion in the window, was a jar filled with amber liquid. When he pointed at it, my grandmother took him inside and the shop owner allowed him to hold the jar. He held it above his head, to see how the light turned the liquid to gold.

The jar slipped from his small hands. Shattered. Shards of glass and gobs of sticky honey exploded like sweet shrapnel.

He told me that he never got a chance to try the honey that day, but the shop had filled with the scent of sugar and clover and sunlight. This was where it began.

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The first time I was stung by a honey bee, I was running barefoot through the flight path of one of the hives in the backyard. I remember I had just noticed that the peaches were ripe, and I wanted to sit in between the laundry lines and let the damp, sunsoaked sheets flap against me as I devoured peachflesh down to the pit. It was a sweltering day, and the monsoon clouds had dissipated before noon.

I was careless. The honey bee slammed into my left bicep, and I felt her convulse against my skin. It was an eyelash kiss closely followed by the bullet burn of formic acid. I looked down and her body was still attached to me by her stinger, which spasmed, pumping poison. I slapped at her. This tore her body in two.

I don’t remember crying, but I do remember dad shouting over my ragged hyperventilation until I calmed down enough to look at what he held in his hand.

He cradled the twitching bee, her black-and-gold body in obvious agony. Her thrashing slowed. In a rare occurrence, Dad met my eyes.

“I need to take the stinger out of your arm. She sacrificed herself to protect her sisters, but her barb will continue to hurt you unless we pull it out. She was acting according to her nature, and she died because she thought you were a threat.”

He quickly pulled the wriggling thorn from my arm. Together we watched the bee as my arm grew tight and hot and slowly the stinger stilled. The pain intensified as the bee’s movements weakened. Through my carelessness, I had caused her death. I wanted to tell her I was sorry but it was too late. Dad tipped her corpse into the grass.

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In many countries, when there is a death in the family, there is a practice called “telling the bees.” It is believed that bees are messengers from the world of the living to the realms of the dead. Often, the appointed individual will approach the beehive and knock on it with the key to the house. Once they have gained the bees attention, they speak in a low, quiet voice. If the honeybees are not informed of death, they may take this oversight as an insult and leave their hive. Disaster may befall the family.

Although this practice is most commonly associated with death and funerals, the bees are also informed of happy events, like marriage, or the birth of children.

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An incomplete list of things that will vanish, along with pollinating bees.

Apples.

Coffee.

Citrus.

Cranberries

Blueberries.

Almonds.

Melons.

Broccoli.

Beans.

Tomatoes.

Onions.

Three quarters of the crop species that feed 90% of the world.

All animals that depend on these plants, all the way up the fragile vertebrae of the food chain.

Half of the fruit and vegetables that appear in your grocery store.