Baked Bees
Yep–they were baked.
I pulled two frames of brood from my lovely gentle ladies–two frames mostly filled with honey and one drawn comb frame.
I closed the door to allow ventilation–but no escape.
I put it on the picnic table.
I could hear them buzzing around in there–let me out! Please let me out!
Today there was no buzzing–just hundreds of dead bees. I guess the baby bees were baked too.
And then there were the Mean Girls. They were honey bound–never mind they had another box to put honey in–they just kept stuffing it all in one box–like an overflowing closet so full you can’t close the doors or a drawer so full of socks and T-shirts–you can’t close it–of the suitcase you have to sit on to make it close.
I pulled a frame of brood and moved it up–suggesting–looky here girls–Another nursery is available–the honey was all put top-side–how I will ever lift it down because it was a big project with just four frames about 80% full of capped honey.
Then those girls followed me around. I walked and walked; tried to walk around trees and bushes–those are supposed to confuse them. No-one of the many cars passing by stopped to ask if I was all right –thank goodness-those mean girls would have had them for snack and thought nothing of it.
Finally they settled on a nearby magnolia blossom and I was able to go inside and de-suit.
I downed a bottle of water, locked the door, and headed out to the truck—the mean girls met me half-way buzzing around my hair and my hands. I snatched off my glasses–so I wouldn’t look like a really big insect with my sunglasses and quick-stepped to the truck. Somehow they knew that they were not supposed to fly past the gate and I was able to escape.
No photos today–dead bees were not a pretty sight–and those mean girls were more interested in chasing me around than in posing for photos.
Sylvia Weir Art 