I’ve got bumble bees in my yard, sucking nectar from my comfrey plants. Comfrey is the first plant to bloom in my garden after the tulips and daffodils. Spring is here. I find the sight of bees at work invigorating. I can make a new batch of comfrey oil. Bees promise that my newly planted pepper and tomato seedlings will be fertilized when they bloom. Buzzing bees mean, “all is well with the world.”
Other people see bees differently. I remember a picnic when I was about 5 years old. Adults ran from a buzzing bee. They screamed in fear if a bee landed on them. I’d seen my grandfather catch flies and carry them away from the house where their presence upset my grandmother. I figured I could do the same thing with a bee.
I climbed on the table, waited patiently for the bee to come to me, and caught it between my hands. It was so easy, I couldn’t imagine why none of the adults had thought of this. The adults stared at me in awe as if I’d just performed a heroic deed. Then YOW. It felt like I was at the doctor’s office, getting a shot. In my hand. I dropped the bee. Nobody was afraid of it any more. The adults seemed to be afraid of me.
Everything that flies is not a housefly. Bees just don’t want to be told what to do. Neither do I. Maybe I was morphed by that bee sting.