It worked! For better or worse.
Don't worry, I will not be defining EVERY WORD, but just a few here and there for emphasis. bum-ble-bee n: a large hairy bee that makes a loud humming sound. In other words, my mortal enemy. Just typing the words "loud humming sound" inflicts fear, causing my heart to skip ahead a few beats (that would be "Winkibok," a story for another day).
Finally, the bee. I was two. I don't remember much about how we got there, to the ranch, but I am told my dad drove our family in the green '69 Pontiac Bonneville through the canyon per his usual, like it was the Indi--500. Muffler off. Loud and fast. They all knew we were coming, and I guess we all thanked our lucky stars when we got there. That part about dad's driving I don't remember, but I have, myself, experienced it many times since. For some reason my dad likes to be the first one there. Wherever there is. Wherever the other cars on the road are going. So the good news is we made it to the ranch safely.
It was a hot, dusty day. That part, I do remember. At church they told my mom she needed to make her own jam. So there we all were, picking choke cherries (to this day, truth be told, I'm not even sure what they are), and having the time of our lives. Well, I was two and potty training like most two year-old's do. All I remember is the moment my "training pants" mysteriously got wet--and a few moments after that. Out in the dirt, on the hillside, picking choke cherries, was a perfectly logical place to make the change. I clearly remember standing there as my mom started the process. Training pants down. Then came the loud humming sound...a brief landing on my privates, and well, sad to say, "mission accomplished" with a stinger left behind in its landing spot. I will not attempt to describe the pain.
Don't worry, I will not be defining EVERY WORD, but just a few here and there for emphasis. bum-ble-bee n: a large hairy bee that makes a loud humming sound. In other words, my mortal enemy. Just typing the words "loud humming sound" inflicts fear, causing my heart to skip ahead a few beats (that would be "Winkibok," a story for another day).
Finally, the bee. I was two. I don't remember much about how we got there, to the ranch, but I am told my dad drove our family in the green '69 Pontiac Bonneville through the canyon per his usual, like it was the Indi--500. Muffler off. Loud and fast. They all knew we were coming, and I guess we all thanked our lucky stars when we got there. That part about dad's driving I don't remember, but I have, myself, experienced it many times since. For some reason my dad likes to be the first one there. Wherever there is. Wherever the other cars on the road are going. So the good news is we made it to the ranch safely.
It was a hot, dusty day. That part, I do remember. At church they told my mom she needed to make her own jam. So there we all were, picking choke cherries (to this day, truth be told, I'm not even sure what they are), and having the time of our lives. Well, I was two and potty training like most two year-old's do. All I remember is the moment my "training pants" mysteriously got wet--and a few moments after that. Out in the dirt, on the hillside, picking choke cherries, was a perfectly logical place to make the change. I clearly remember standing there as my mom started the process. Training pants down. Then came the loud humming sound...a brief landing on my privates, and well, sad to say, "mission accomplished" with a stinger left behind in its landing spot. I will not attempt to describe the pain.
My bee story doesn't end there. Fast forward to 7th grade. Our neighbors up the street decided it would be a good idea to make their own honey. In their back yard. Yes, it's true. They had two big white boxes full of swarming bees. This was a good way to discourage unwanted neighborhood children, an armed robber, or anyone else who might consider coming to the front door or crossing their property.
Until the wedding day.
Our "bee" neighbors decided to have a wedding back there. With the bees. It just so happened that some of us were unaware of their honey-making ventures. The big day came. I remember standing around, talking and laughing with friends, nary a care, when through no fault of my own, a bee stung my eyelid. Flex hairspray must have been a factor, though I have no proof. To this day, I distinctly remember the bee keeper's daughter reaching in, toward my eye, and with two pinching fingers trying to remove the stinger. She and her dad led me inside as to stifle the screams (few things can ruin a wedding like a screaming girl).
While her dad busily concocted a poison-removing-remedy that apparently they were very familiar with, another bee stung me under my arm. I began flailing around the room screaming, "I've gotta get out of here!" And gasping, "They're trying to kill me!" I practically broke down their front door in my attempts to escape and ran home screaming.
This was all good because there was a wedding, too.
Incidentally, I had been in a sledding accident on their driveway a few years before this where I'd slammed my head into their mailbox. And ran home screaming. They were constantly apologizing to my parents, but what they didnt' understand is I am me. There is no prevention or cure.
So a few minutes after running through my front door, our neighborly friend came for a visit with poison-remedy in hand. Presumably the wedding was over. Now I not only had a swollen eye and armpit, but also had white pasty stuff all over the swelled areas. The best part is, my parents sent me to school the next day with my eye swollen shut. I will not attempt to describe the pain.
We all have heard how dogs and bees can sense fear. I cannot tell you how many times I have been told, "When a bee flies around you, don't be scared, you'll only attract it." Now knowing what you know, how can you expect me to do that? The only hope I have found has been through reading, "The Secret Life of Bees." The book tells me to, "Send out love to the bees," and I'm here to tell you, it works. Most of the time.
I will admit, however, that even though I am working on it, there are lapses. I have been known to be on the phone with my mother, standing outside, and occasionally a bee will fly into my personal space. She'll hear a certain frenzied scream and say, "Was that a bee?" And she's always right.
Until the wedding day.
Our "bee" neighbors decided to have a wedding back there. With the bees. It just so happened that some of us were unaware of their honey-making ventures. The big day came. I remember standing around, talking and laughing with friends, nary a care, when through no fault of my own, a bee stung my eyelid. Flex hairspray must have been a factor, though I have no proof. To this day, I distinctly remember the bee keeper's daughter reaching in, toward my eye, and with two pinching fingers trying to remove the stinger. She and her dad led me inside as to stifle the screams (few things can ruin a wedding like a screaming girl).
While her dad busily concocted a poison-removing-remedy that apparently they were very familiar with, another bee stung me under my arm. I began flailing around the room screaming, "I've gotta get out of here!" And gasping, "They're trying to kill me!" I practically broke down their front door in my attempts to escape and ran home screaming.
This was all good because there was a wedding, too.
Incidentally, I had been in a sledding accident on their driveway a few years before this where I'd slammed my head into their mailbox. And ran home screaming. They were constantly apologizing to my parents, but what they didnt' understand is I am me. There is no prevention or cure.
So a few minutes after running through my front door, our neighborly friend came for a visit with poison-remedy in hand. Presumably the wedding was over. Now I not only had a swollen eye and armpit, but also had white pasty stuff all over the swelled areas. The best part is, my parents sent me to school the next day with my eye swollen shut. I will not attempt to describe the pain.
We all have heard how dogs and bees can sense fear. I cannot tell you how many times I have been told, "When a bee flies around you, don't be scared, you'll only attract it." Now knowing what you know, how can you expect me to do that? The only hope I have found has been through reading, "The Secret Life of Bees." The book tells me to, "Send out love to the bees," and I'm here to tell you, it works. Most of the time.
I will admit, however, that even though I am working on it, there are lapses. I have been known to be on the phone with my mother, standing outside, and occasionally a bee will fly into my personal space. She'll hear a certain frenzied scream and say, "Was that a bee?" And she's always right.
