The Beekeeper
by Eric Suhem
“Sometimes I think you
just don’t care about me at all. All that
matters to you are those bees!” said our
mother, as our father the beekeeper tended to the
apiary and examined a colony of busy drones.
There had always been bees
in the house. Our father the beekeeper saw it as
a healthy thing, becoming comfortable with, and
not fearing, these busy little workers of nature.
Not to mention the extra side revenue of a
burgeoning honey business. However, the rest of
us felt that this had a negative impact on family
dynamics. Our father was distant, and somewhat of
an enigma, though a good provider for the family.
He seemed to be more comfortable with the bees
than with fatherhood.
“You can’t keep
shutting me out emotionally,” said our
mother as our father put on his beekeeping suit
and walked outside to the hives.
Two weeks later, our mother
ran off with a honey distributor. Feeling the
sting, we asked our father what had happened, and
he simply said, “The queen has left the hive.”
In the next few weeks, he focused more on his bee
career.
“I’m taking the
bees to the airport, stay away from the
beekeeping equipment while I’m gone,”
said our father, tapping the mask of his white
beekeeper suit for emphasis. He had taken to
wearing his beekeeper suit more and more around
the house. He said that he was transporting bees
for crop pollination, though we suspected that he
was just taking the bees on vacation.
At the airport, our father
the beekeeper stacked his white-boxed beehives
near the luggage conveyor belt at the ticket
counter. “Sir, we’ll need to charge a
supplemental luggage fee,” said the
counterperson, weighing the hives, as the bees
buzzed busily. “We’ll also need to
charge an extra fee if you’re going to wear
that beekeeping suit on the plane.” The
beekeeper contemplated unleashing his bees on the
counterperson but instead paid the extra fees.
On the plane, the beekeeper
waited for the stewardess to bring his order of
Sprite. As he stared at the magenta and turquoise-colored
swirling designs on the upholstery of the seat in
front of him, the beekeeper construed the noise
of the jet engine as the buzzing of bees. When
the stewardess approached with the tray of Sprite,
the buzzing reached a deafening roar, causing the
beekeeper to interpret the approaching stewardess
as a massive bee passing out cups of pesticide.
In an uproar, he overturned the tray of Sprite
while looking at the stewardess’ giant bee’s
head and twitching antennae. “Sir if you’ll
remain calm, I’ll get you another Sprite,”
said the stewardess. To the beekeeper, her words
sounded like, “Bzzz….let those who are
close to you into the hive…the flowers will
yield pollen, and the honey will be sweet and
soothing….bzzz….buzzz….”
Upon returning from his
trip, our father the beekeeper was more open to
us, much to our surprise. He slowly let us into
his life, talking about how our mother’s
leaving with the honey distributor had affected
him. He taught us how to tend the apiary, and
protect the bees from varroa mites, wax moths,
and small hive beetles. Our father the
beekeeper joined us in learning about making soap,
lip balms, candles, and lotions out of wax and
honeycombs, the house becoming a buzzing beehive
of activity.
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