Pioneer Valley Days

Why Do Bees Suddenly Appear?

It’s a cool, overcast morning, so I assume that, when I go fertilize the yard later on, the carpenter bees that usually buzz around our shed on hot, sunny days will stay inside watching The View with their wives and grumbling about having to sweep the latest wood chewings out of the nursery. I think we have about eight happy couples now, judging by the number of males I’ve seen guarding the shed at any one time. Nate named one Sass and another Lily, and the I dubbed the two that always wrestle by the shed door Woody and Buzz. I lost track after that, figuring I could just start naming the rest after Gosselins. (Stop it, Jon! I’m watering plants! Go back home to your wife before I have to hose you down!)

I know, on an intellectual level, that they’re harmless, but my bee phobia still pops up at random times, like the afternoon I managed, after much heavy breathing and squeezing shut of eyes, to fumble with the shed latch long enough to reach my lawnmower. When I tried to push it back out, he was right there, in the doorway, at eye level, staring curiously and just a bit smugly.

What are you doing? I asked politely.

I’m hovering.

Can you hover somewhere else?

No. What are you doing?

Trying to get my lawnmower out of the shed. Seriously, can you move?

Why must I move? I’m a tiny bee. I’m not blocking you.

You’re a massive bee, and you are blocking me.

I’m only one bee.

There’s a whole bunch more out there just like you!

Just like me? Maybe they want to be close to you.

Stop that.

You’re scared of getting stung, aren’t you?

With most bees, yes, although not really in your case. But just because you can’t sting me doesn’t mean I want to be anywhere nea—

Hey, whattaya mean I can’t sting?

You’re a male. Male carpenter bees have no stingers.

Are you sure?

I’m pretty sure. I looked you up on Wikipedia—

What’s that?

It’s a user-edited Internet encyclopedia. Anyway—

Compiled by professionals?

No, mainly enthusiastic readers.

Sounds unreliable.

Yeah, well, anyway, it says the male doesn’t sting.

A little creative vandalism by one of those amateur editors, I’m sure.

I found corroborating sources.

Oh. Well, how do you know I’m male?

Well, the males wile away their days buzzing around their home and being a nuisance. The females spend their time in the nest, and only sting in defense of it. And I doubt they’re this annoying.

Maybe I’m an extra-annoying female, and I see you as a threat to my nest. HEY, DON’T GO NEAR MY NEST, OK? See?

If you meant that, you’d let me go mow my lawn.

Did you know female carpenter bee stings hurt a lot?

Yeah. I read all about different insect stings on Wikipedia. Can you please move?

You read about the bullet ant, then?

Yup. Worst bite imaginable.

HEY, LOOK OUT BEHIND YOU! BULLET ANT!

They only live in South America, smartass. You know, I read that teenage boys in Brazil are subjected to dozens of bites at a time, on multiple occasions, as a rite of passage into manhood. Sometimes the pain and paralysis last for days. Totally hardcore stuff.

Wow. So, what does your kind do as a rite of passage into manhood?

Um, I don’t know. Youth soccer, I guess. You kick a ball around for a few weeks, and then everyone gets a trophy.

That’s it?

Sometimes you go out for pizza afterward. Can I leave the shed now?

Bullet ant pizza?

No, cheese. Sometimes pepperoni.

Wow, that’s pathetic. No wonder you’re scared of me.

I'm a bad example. I never played sports. I was more into, like, crossword puzzles and chess.

I see. It’s amazing you found a mate at all. Where is she, by the way?

At work.

Good. That one has no fear. Neither does your offspring.

I know. He likes bees, even though he’s been stung twice already.

Yes, I remember … he screamed very recently. Tried to pick up a bee on your sunporch, I hear.

He thought it was one of you.

Most excellent. Now he’ll be more discerning.

Shut up. Can I please leave my shed now?

You’re amusing. You know, your mate grew up here. She’s used to us. You should loosen up a little.

Well, it’s going to take some time.

Stop that.

Sorry.

Yes. Well, I grow weary of you. Go mow your lawn. And watch out for the ground nests of … well, never mind. Happy mowing.

+++

I had already crossed the yard — and Joel, Aaden, and Collin had joined their pal in swarming the still-open doorway — when it hit me. I forgot the gas can.

Yeah, that’s in the shed, too, came the voice from behind me.

It’s going to be a long summer, isn’t it?

We’ve only just begun.

Another Good Use for Agility Equipment

Last week, Nate decided he wanted to cast a magic spell and banish the monsters.

Jenn, tired of being woken by crying once or twice a night, was glad for that, since she’s a light sleeper who has trouble getting back to sleep after being disturbed. (It's why we have a snoring room for me.) But she also asked me to call the pediatrician and ask whether it was normal for a 4-year-old to have nightmares every single night.

“I had them every night,” I said. “For years.”

“That was 30 years ago,” she said. “They probably know more now.”

Makes sense, I figured. So I called. I told the nurse on phone duty that Nate seems to be having normal nightmares, not night terrors like I did at his age, since he’s always consolable and gets back to sleep quickly, even when the dream has him sitting up or walking around. And in the morning, also unlike a night terror, he remembers the dream. It usually involves monsters.

The nurse happens to have a boy of similar age, and she related a few psychological tricks that worked in her house, including hanging a dreamcatcher (and explaining to the kid how it traps bad dreams and lets good ones through) and an elaborate bit of play-acting in which she physically pulled a monster out of the closet, dragged him down the stairs by his monstrous ear, and tossed him into a snowbank outside. That was the end of her son’s monster issues. Seriously.

“So we’re supposed to pretend the monsters are real?” Jenn asked later. But, hey, she had asked me to call, so we weren’t going to just ignore the advice. Besides, she had already suggested the magic spell idea, which Nate immediately liked. It was my job to come up with the spell, though. I had all day to think of one. I started composing it that night, in front of the open closet door, while Nate was in his jammies waiting for his bedtime stories.

First, I rubbed my hands together. That’s important. It gets the monsters’ attention and lets them know you’re serious. Then I improvised a chant:

“Go, monsters! Go, monsters! Go a-way!”

Breezy and catchy, it did the trick, I thought. Nate’s wide smile told me I had come up with a winner, so we repeated it several times, aiming the spell at various spots around the room, into the hallway, and down the stairs. I added a bit of guided imagery after reading time, asking him to tell me about the nice things he was going to dream about that night.

“Dogs,” he said. “Dog class. And school. And loving Mommy and Daddy.”

That was nice, I thought. “And the park, and slides?” I asked.

“And baseball,” he said. “And visiting Nonna and Babci. And McDonald’s.”

“And Cracker Barrel?”

“Yeah, and trains, and cars. And books, and puzzles, and toys, and music, and bookshelves, and doorknobs.”

“Now you’re just looking around the room,” I said. That was OK, though. I’ve never known doorknobs to be scary. Unless you’re trying to get all the pieces of one back into the clamshell packaging to return it to Home Depot because you bought the wrong color. Then they’re kind of evil. Safely attached to the door? Not so much.

As it turned out, that night was completely quiet. And although most nights since then have featured a sudden waking or two, the bad dreams are less frequent overall, and less intense. Nate has taken to casting the nightly spells using a wand (actually an agility jump bar he keeps in his room), and follows the “go monsters” chant with a pshw! sound like you hear on Star Trek.

“Captain, the monsters aren’t going away. Should we fire the photon torpedoes?”

“Make it so, number one.”

Pshw! Pshw! Pshw!

So, yeah, the ritual is kind of entertaining. Two nights ago, he called me into his room several minutes after lights out because Mommy had forgotten to do the spell. Silly Mommy.

We talked about God the other day too, while we played with his toolbench out on the deck and the evening church bells started ringing. I told him he can ask God to make him less fearful at night.

“Just say, ‘hey, God!’” he said, lifting up his head and shouting to the sky.

“Well, more quietly,” I said. “But, yes.”

“And then God will drive down to see me?”

“Not quite. But he’s watching over you, and he’ll make you feel less afraid.”

Personally, I think our routine of talking about all the nice things he’ll dream about as he drifts off is making the most difference right now. After all, happy dreams are fun. But it’s good to remind him of other comforts, too.

Still ... the wand is pretty cool.

Joe's TV List Raises a Toast

#6: Cheers
(NBC, 1982-1993)

So my sister, Tami, had this beautiful wedding last month, followed by a super-fun reception. And it must have been while the wedding party and sundry guests were on the dance floor, shaking their rears to "Baby Got Back," or strutting around to "Wild Thing" (Tone Loc, not Troggs) -- or when my Mom was tearing it up with moves I can't imagine she's broken out since her poodle-skirt days -- that I thought, these are the same conservative, buttoned-up church folk I grew up around. This is the same Mom who once got annoyed when I played an especially rockin' Debby Boone song in the kitchen, like Debby Boone was some sort of gateway drug to ... I don't know, Leo Sayer. The same Mom, for that matter, who once told me she didn't care how clever and well-written it was, I was not watching Cheers, saturated as it was with alcohol and sex. Oh, I'd catch it when I could (Thursday was Bible study night, and my parents attended more often than I did), and by my college years I could quote most episodes, but it was never exactly must-see TV at home. Of course (as I observed while enjoying a glass of red wine the day after the wedding), practically my whole family drinks a little alcohol these days. But frank sex humor is still a no-no. Except on the dance floor.