Ain't MisBEEhavin'

What bees wouldn't want to live here?

Last week I checked on the bees at Elaine and Kelly's organic farm.  Elaine and Kelly are the type of people who take excellent care of their land, their animals and their people.  I love to have an excuse to visit them, and when I suggested bringing bees to their land, I was delighted with their affirmative response.  A few months earlier, on Easter Sunday, I came out for a visit and we inspected some abandoned hives that had been ravaged by a bear.  As I was describing to Elaine the concept of bee guardianship, she felt moved to create a hospitable place for bees and include them as part of their integrated, holistically managed farm. 

Plus, she'll get honey.

So I moved a hive out there in early June, and things seemed to be going well.  Kelly's brother Tim leaned on the fence next to the hive, a bit too close for them, and earned a sting for it.  Next, Kelly got one on the back of his leg.  A few stings is not unusual for a hive close to the garden and house, and certainly didn't seem overly aggressive.  Two weeks ago Elaine and I were doing a hive inspection an the next day she was up close capturing photos of their activity.  No stings.

But last week was different.  Tim and I opened up the hive to do an inspection.  There was a lot of honey, and the bees were fairly mellow at first.  Before I could get into the second box though, the volume of bees circling us caused me to abort the rest of the inspection.  Elaine got stung several feet away. The dog got harassed.  It took a while to "walk them off"--meaning, Tim and I walked a good half-mile away and still had guard bees buzzing around our heads.  We went in for the night, and I figured all would be back to normal the next day. 

They were still pretty pissed off when I left that morning.  I still figured they would calm down.  I texted Elaine later that day, and she said they were so aggressive that she and Kelly couldn't work in the garden, couldn't pick greens for dinner.  Kelly got stung on the hand while getting in his truck, and the hand swelled so much that he couldn't bend his fingers.

She didn't want to bother me while I was out of town, so she didn't tell me the whole story until I returned.  The bees formed a cloud at both the front and back doors to their home, essentially trapping them in the house.  They dive bombed the heads of anyone within hundreds of feet of the house, including two buildings over in the garage.  They were expecting a work group to come help with weeding, and Kelly climbed out the bedroom window to meet the group a mile down the road to tell them not to come to the house.  They were to be hosting house guests with a toddler that weekend.

Elaine called Everett Davie, veteran beekeeper, who came late that night to move the bees away.  He doesn't wear a bee suit, and was stung several times.  He estimated the hives to weigh 140 lbs; they had already put away a lot of honey and would continue to do so, but they were no longer welcome to do it there.

I texted with Russell, a beekeeping apprentice, to brainstorm what may have happened.  He asked about skunk claw marks.  Was there canola nearby? (GM canola is toxic to honeybees)  Nope.  There was plenty of alfalfa and yellow clover and an apple tree and various other flowers, but no predators or pesticides or GM crops.  He guessed either these bees were feral, or had Africanized genes or were sick. 

I spoke to Everett a few minutes ago, and he agreed that they had aggressive genetics.  They were "survivors" as Brent Edelen, the beekeeper from whom I bought them, describes them--Alamosa mutts who are able to make it through these harsh winters but are meanies.  Everett also surmises that they were reluctant to move up into the honey supers and felt crowded.  It still doesn't add up or really explain their bee-havior.

Everybody feels bad.  Elaine is regretting putting bees so close to the house.  She was frightened by Kelly's reaction to the sting.  I feel embarrassed that the bees turned on them that way and that I wasn't able to fix the problem, that she had to call someone else to take care of them.  Did I disturb them wrong?  Did we accidentally kill the queen?  Those bees stung every body--they stung me when I moved them there.  Why weren't they happy on that lovely organic farm?  It had even been raining a bit.

And I just had another friend request bees on her farm--they have two little kids.  What if the same thing happened to their bees?  Now I am afraid to put bees anywhere.

And you know who feels the worst?  The bees.  Maybe they were upset about the Trayvon Mitchell/George Zimmerman verdict and were protesting in their way.  Perhaps they need to let us know how dire their situation, all situations, seem to be, as if they are saying "These are the end of days, people!  Wake up, motherfuckers!"

And a part of me feels like reacting the way author Ross Gay describes in his essay in this month's "The Sun" magazine--with a match and some gasoline.  But that is not my nature.  My nature is to contemplate, question, worry, wait.  Non-confront. 

Yesterday, as I was setting newly polished shoes in the sun to let the wax melt in, I was within a foot of my backyard hive.  A worker bee flew right up to my face and scanned me, hovering a few seconds, floating up and down and then left to right.  I said softly "hi there" and smiled, and she flew off.  She either recognized me or didn't perceive me as a threat to the hive.