“Love me, love my bees,” was the philosophy my husband adopted when a man whom I had hitherto considered a good friend gave him a hive of bees.

It didn’t take me long to learn to close my kitchen windows whenever I embarked upon a jam-canning spree, or never to dump peach peelings on the compost pile until after the bees had retired for the night. But I just couldn’t get used to having those darn little critters literally getting in my hair every time I stuck my head out the back door.

Naturally, then, when Jimmy, in his enthusiasm over his new hobby, ordered ten dollars’ worth of bees from a firm in Georgia, I was not exactly imbued with delirious joy at the prospect of owning a few thousand more of those stinging insects. Besides, I secretly felt a little disgruntled whenever I thought of the new curtains that that ten dollars might have bought.

A few weeks after dispatching his order to Georgia, Jimmy greeted me upon his return home from the office one night with the query, “Has the express office called yet about my bees?”
“No,” was the disappointing (for him) reply.

This became a ritual that we went through with tireless monotony every evening for two weeks. At least one morning, the man at the Berea express office telephoned and said that the bees had arrived. That night Jimmy forgot to ask about them, and, quite naturally, I forgot to answer.

The express man phoned again the next day and exclaimed peevishly, “When in the heck are you coming for these bees?” (He must have shared my sentiments concerning bees!) They’re humming madly, and I think that their food supply has run out. If you don’t get them today, I’m afraid they won’t last through the night.”

Unfortunately, the express office kept “banker’s” hours and would be closed before Jimmy got home from work (Jimmy works in a bank). As I didn’t know how to drive a car, I was really in a pickle. As I picked up the receiver to telephone Cleveland, I feared for the security of my marriage. I told Jimmy the bad news, trying my best to soften the blow. Since his office was by no means a private one, his words, of necessity were entirely printable.

According to his instructions, I entreated a neighbor to go to Berea for the bees. When they arrived, I destroyed with great dispatch the one or two bees clinging foolishly to the outside of their shipping cages, then with a temerity born of desperation, carried the cages into the basement. Carefully, I placed several layers of newspapers between their cages and the basement floor. Still following Jimmy’s telephone instructions, I made a sugar syrup which I sprinkled upon them generously.

Then I consulted that alphabet book and bible of all beekeepers, The A B C & X Y Z of Beekeeping, as well as a book entitled Starting Right with Bees.

As the angry humming of the bees filled my ears, I idly turned the pages and came upon this passage, written by the estimable Mr. Root: “Bees are . . . the pleasantest, most sociable, genial, and good-natured little beings that are met in all animated creation, when they are understood.” As I looked at it, his statement was a gross misrepresentation. Or perhaps I just didn’t understand them!

Be that as it may, in the course of my leafing through these enlightening pages, I learned that, “Care should be taken to give the bees no more syrup than they can carry or they will be left daubed and sticky. This would mean dead bees in short order.” I wasn’t too happy over this discovery and wondered just what to do about feeding those bees in the basement.

Diligently I pursued my occupation in the hope that I should find a proper solution. Then I came to these words: “Make sugar syrup by diluting two parts of sugar with one part of hot water until crystals are dissolved, then smear a liberal amount of warm syrup on the wire screen of each cage laid on its side, with a brush or cloth. Continue feeding until bees are gorged.”

Felicitating myself or now knowing more about the care of bees than did my husband, I forthwith used a few more pounds of rationed sugar to make more syrup, then proceeded to follow the book instructions. I hovered over those cages all afternoon, paying small heed to the innumerable little brown specks that seemed to be coming off the screens onto my cloth. After brushing the screens for the hundredth time and feeling that the bees were sufficiently gorged, I went upstairs to relax. Never before, nor since, have I felt that I had behaved myself in a manner more properly becoming a dutiful and virtuous wife.

When Jimmy arrived home that evening, I started triumphantly to tell him of my experience with bees. By way of displaying my superior knowledge, I began to expound my theories regarding the wisest way to feed the syrup – by brushing it on the screens, rather than by sprinkling it on the bees. I got no further, for Jimmy interrupted by saying, “But by doing that you might brush off the bees’ tongues and legs.”

“Great Heavens! So that’s what “those little brown specks” were. With my sails thus cruelly deflated, I deemed it prudent to remain silent concerning my virtually criminal actions.

As Jimmy repaired to the basement, I prayed fervently that he wouldn’t notice all “those little brown specks.” All went well, however, and after Jimmy had the bees duly installed in their new hives, he told me casually that the supply of syrup in the feeding cans contained in the shipping cages was far from depleted. All my efforts had been completely unnecessary! I muttered a few imprecations concerning all winged insects in general and one husband in particular.

A few weeks later Jimmy reported heartily that the new bees were coming along just fine. Amazing!

During the five years that have elapsed since this episode, I have often vowed that some day I would make my husband choose between us – his bees or me. But I have never carried out my threat, for I know only too well what his choice would be – and it wouldn’t be me!

I have come to tolerate the bees and even to appreciate some of their virtues. But to say that I love them – well, that would be using the term loosely!