It was dusk. The crickets were beginning to chirp, a cool breeze was finally whipping up, and the orange sun was bleeding into the horizon. My husband and I were just about to park ourselves on the back deck and relax. Our five year old was outside with his friends, screeching up and down the street in his Power Wheels Monster Truck, so we needed to watch him. I do not let him play outside unless there is an adult around. Call me paranoid, but I watch the headlines. I hover. And I’m proud of it.
As we both pulled out our chairs at the outdoor table, I saw something dark fly out of the corner of my eye.
Must be a big mosquito.
I sat down, and took a sip from my glass, and rubbed the Heebie Jeebies away from my arms. I’ve read that mosquitoes are more attracted to fair skinned people. Yay me. My husband sprayed some OFF in my direction and lit the citronella candles. Repellents don’t work on the Jurassic bloodsuckers in our backyard, but the ritual always makes us feel better, anyway.
Through the fog of bug spray, I saw something black nosedive behind my husband’s head, and fly back up again from under the table. With a couple of friends. Toward me.
That’s no mosquito.
Aaaah! I screamed like a girl and ran inside, my husband pulling up the rear, almost forgetting to open the door first. Once inside, we watched as our little slice of outdoor heaven became invaded by honey bees. I’m no etymologist, but our friend, who’s a boy scout troupe leader, later saw them and classified them. I mean, the guy can survive in the woods with only a pocket knife and a rope. He’s got to know bugs, right? My decorative table and candles had become a sweet little homestead for some of Georgia’s most unwelcomed squatters. And just like unwanted human neighbors, I’ve been told you can’t kill them.
Safely behind glass, I watched them gather and hover around their home, and any larvae that may already be inside. They were protecting their home inside the table, just like I do with my own. Only, my kids are cuter, and I pay a mortgage. Something had to be done, but I just didn’t know what. I sent my husband out another door to keep an eye on our son, and I did what I do best.
I Googled it.
Apparently, my misinformed Georgia friends, honeybees are not protected by law.
I now have three bottles of spray lined up and ready for action. But, who gets to do the honors? Him or me?
Anyone know how bees feel about white people? I think I heard, somewhere, they are more attracted to fair skinned people. So, he should do it, right?
I’ll tell him I Googled it.