Illustration by Tiffy Thompson

Part One by Samantha Bennett

There we sprawled around the fire, wintery wind fists hammering the windows. The topic turned to bees as Bryan has participated in the keeping of them at Concordia where he studies. Suddenly he sang out: “Why don’t we build our own hive and keep bees on your roof this summer?” Now, maybe it was the tequila, but this sounded like a terrific idea to me and my mate, Gordie. Why not? We had heard of the world-wide colony collapse with billions of bees dead and dying, and felt this might be the ideal way to give back to an environment I take from with deep and abiding regularity.

The fact that I am proper scared of bees did not enter into it until much later, and by then it was far, far too late. But I am getting ahead of myself.

The first thing we do is educate ourselves by watching an outstanding documentary ‘Queen Of The Sun.’ We then read the books ‘The Beekeeper’s Handbook and ‘The Incomparable Honeybee.’ It is not over-stating things to say we are blown away. Each bee fact is more engrossing than the last. The complexity of this matriarchal society is staggering, and far too lengthy to go into here. Allow me then to relate three titillating tidbits:

1) The drones (males) exist only to service queens from other hives. At home they help not, gorging on drippy honey walls, their stripes widening. If there are any left before hibernation, the gal bees throw them out of the hive, and refuse them re-admittance. The boys mill about, listless, forlorn, and die of starvation.

2) When the queen flies out to mate, she soars miles away from her own hive to avoid any nasty DNA mash-ups, releases a pheromone, and the drones from other hives zoom out to meet her. She copulates on the wing with hundreds of them, and after each romp the drone’s penis falls off, and he plummets groundward, dead, or damn near.

3) When the ladies feel it is time to find a new home, a few foragers fly off in search of better real estate. Upon their return, a space is cleared on the comb and they have a dance-off, each girl moving back and forth in the direction she thinks they should move, until a winner is somehow, by bee magic, decided.

For our hive we chose the top-bar model. It was reasonably easy to build, or at least it appeared to be, as I watched with interest from a comfy deck chair. We purchased 100 odd bees and a queen. The bees were taken from an existing hive with sovereign enthroned, so we needed to introduce a new head of state to the gals we were taking. This is done by placing Her Majesty in a small cage with a stopper of marshmallow. It is then hung down into the new hive and it takes the bees and their queen 3 days to eat their way through to each other, giving everyone time for a deep inhale, and thereby preventing sudden regicide.

Right then. Time to suit up, and get the bees out of their travel case and into their new home. Bryan and I put on long sleeves, tuck our pants into our socks, don the bee veils, and attractive sky-blue kitchen gloves. Bryan is ecstatic that I am about to have my first hands-on experience with one hundred of these stinging chicks. I smile the grin of the damned, giddy with terror. He lifts the lid off the travel case and a dozen or so immediately fly out. I am statue still, only my eyes rolling and wobbling in my face, thankfully covered by the blessed veil.

Bryan is explaining how they will begin to head butt us, or land on us and shake their furry bums in the air. This denotes irritation and warning. He assures me stinging is a last resort, as they die from it. Oh, they survive stinging other animals due to the fur, but human skin is so thick, when they attempt to retract the stinger it near rips their backsides off.

Just now, Bryan is brushing dozens of them out of the case and down into the new hive, and asking me if I’d rather stick my hand into the teeming mass to attach the caged monarch to the hive, or hold the travel case, still full of crawling beasties. My voice is shrill and strangely British. “I don’t believe I’m capable of either of those things, old chap.” Bryan gazes at me through his lovely blue eyes, smiles from his suspiciously red lips. ‘That’s ok, Sammy. You’re doing great, just great.” He speaks softly. We move in slow motion, as we have been taught. There are bees on the veil three inches from my face. Bees on my gloved digits. On my arms. I have never been this close to one for this long. I hail more from the flailing, screeching tribe. Bees don’t care for this. They are happiest in a jolt-free, buffered zone of steady business. I can feel a change begin in me. My fear is receding at an astonishing clip. My brain, forever churning, has down-shifted into one thought. Bee. Such a simple word for this mystery magic. “I’ve just been stung” near-whispers Bryan, and holds out his arm, out of which protrudes a small point. He flicks it away with his fingernail so the venom will stop pumping into him, continues guiding our girls into their new home, before placing the lid on top.

We check the hole in the side, their new doorway, before moving slowly off and indoors. I am soaked in sweat. We strip off and flop on the couch, and I am amazed to discover I am near tears. Relief with deep strafes of bee wonder. It feels post-meditative, if I had ever meditated in my life. It’s as if I had just spent a weekend at a yoga retreat, or it would if I had ever done such a thing. I am truly awestruck, and already protective of them. In a few weeks these few hundred will be twenty thousand strong. I might be ready for this. Stay tuned.

Samantha Bennett is a comedian living in Montreal. This is her first foray into beekeeping. 

Tiffy Thompson is a writer and illustrator for the Toronto Standard. Follow her on Twitter at @tiffyjthompson. 

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