You may have heard people say that getting stung hurts about as much as getting a shot. I’ve found that to be true assuming the shot has a barbed needle that was soaked in an incredibly painful and effective neurotoxin. I can attest to the fact that bee stings hurt … but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me start at the beginning of this story and explain how I ended up in my backyard, on a sunny Memorial Day in 2010, playing the part of the fearless, macho beekeeper.
My dad is a beekeeper. He loves it. I think it was early in 2009 that he asked us if we could keep his beehive (notice the singular noun) in our backyard. You see, he had it in his yard, but the neighbors complained because the bees kept doing kamikaze missions into their pool. For some reason dead bees floating around really bothered them. Being the generous and selfless son that I am I readily agreed to provide a home for the homeless. WWJD after all? Somehow, over the course of the last year and a half, that hive has grown into 4 hives and a burgeoning beekeeping industry. We picked this Memorial Day to extract the honey and I was determined to get stung. That may sound crazy, but let me explain.
As I said, we’ve had the bees for about a year and a half, and in that time my wife, Lianne, has been stung 3 times while I haven’t been stung at all. I didn’t have any problem with this arrangement initially, until I noticed the admiring look in my dad’s eyes as he listened to Lianne recount the tale of her most recent sting. Shortly thereafter dad could be overheard saying things like, “That Lianne is a tough one I tell ya'” and “Lianne’s becoming quite the little beekeeper” and “I wish my firstborn was a girl.” All these comments eventually got to me and I decided it was time to prove myself as a man.
It was with these thoughts of glory that I donned my long pants, bee veil, and t-shirt on Monday morning. I would’ve worn shorts, but dad was recently stung in the buttocks when a bee worked its way up his shorts and that’s just a little too close for comfort, if you know what I mean. I knew I couldn’t quite stand up to his level anyway. Heck, he’d probably work with the bees bare chested if he wasn’t worried about getting bees wax and honey all tangled up in his mass of back hair. I’m serious. He channels the Crocodile Hunter when he gets around bees. Remember thinking how crazy that dude was? Yeah, that’s my dad. Anyway, my short sleeved shirt was a testament to my seriousness, and we headed out around 0800 ready to take on the challenge.
It was the 4th and final hive that did me in. It’s the strongest hive, and they were the most active as we pulled off the top and went to work. I shifted around to the
front of the hive to get the wheelbarrow ready and a bee bounced off my right hand and stung me. I scratched off the stinger and “That really hurt” popped into my head with a cute little British accent. As that swirled around in my mind another bee stung me in the arm about 3 inches from the first sting. I scratched off the stinger and thought “killer bees!!”. I, of course, let out a couple of “Ouches!” and started walking away calmly, albeit briskly. Dad yelled out, “Don’t run away like a yellow bellied coward!” I somehow managed to make my way back toward the hive, ignoring the throbbing pain shooting up my right arm. I blew some smoke on my arm to get rid of the attack pheromone, and finished the job without further incident.
Ah, but the story doesn’t end there. By Monday night my hand and forearm had swollen up nicely and all the joints in my right arm hurt like the dickens. I bore the pain stoically, never complaining or mentioning my pain to anyone. Lianne can testify to my herculean strength and my promethean ability to endure pain. My only concession to the ongoing agony was to keep my arm constantly elevated above my head, take mass amounts of Benadryl and Tylenol, take some pictures, ask Lianne to make me breakfast in bed, have the kids fan me and hold my book for me while I read, and go in late to work for a couple of days. That’s it. You may find it hard to imagine someone as tough as that, but I swear to you that the story is true.
In any event, I now feel completely confident in my manhood. No longer will my dad scoff at my 5’7″ 150 lb frame. He will recognize that he has a son worthy of his name, who is willing to take on the rigors of beekeeping for the next generation … wearing a full on space suit when he does it.
