“Bee-lieve It, Or Not”

c. 2007 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(10-07)

“A good neighbor is a fellow who smiles at you over the back fence, but doesn't climb over it.”
- Arthur Baer


Once upon a time, taking up residence in a community meant living in harmony with those who shared the soil.

For generations that inhabited our neighborhoods during the mid-twentieth century, this idea was instilled soon after birth. Basic civility was the norm. Few needed instruction in the idea of cooperating with fellow citizens. The common-sense logic that inspired this lifestyle justified its inception.

Getting along meant basic tolerance, and respect. It was a useful habit, practiced openly across the land. The notion of neighborly goodness served us well.
Until bees became part of the equation.

I considered such thoughts recently, as summer days drew to a close in Geauga County.
Our socially challenged neighbor to the west had spent the season with a colony of stinging insects building a hi-rise condominium in one of his outside walls. The nest grew frighteningly large as holiday cookouts passed. We began to fear for the safety of children that used our yards as a cut-through to a nearby playground. Our daughters avoided the green space on that side of our home, altogether.

But with a good measure of willful ignorance, this rarely seen member of the community simply ignored his infestation.

I reckoned on spraying the vertical hive at night. But my spouse vetoed the plan as being predicated on an illegal trespass.

Soccer Fairy, our nine-year-old, agreed.

“You can’t spank somebody else’s bees, Daddy!” she observed.

Instead, Liz took a full-page newspaper article next door, to provide information on having these wayward critters removed professionally. She reckoned that it would provide a no-cost solution for the problem.

By August, it was clear that our neighbor had decided to embrace his ignorance with conviction.

The bee swarm continued to grow!

Finally, there was action from our hermit-in-residence, after a flurry of local complaints. He plugged the hole that had served as a point of entry for his uninvited tenants. But the hastiness of this plan made him block the opening during daylight hours.

This sent the colony into a frenzy of homeless agitation!

Amazingly, he had no fear of bee stings while accomplishing his project. The fellow spooned out a patch of discount-store goo with barb-tailed insects nearly dancing on his nose.

The entire street was astounded.

Now, the bees were circling our deck lights in the evening.

Mowing on the far side of our house became a tricky task. I wore bright clothing, and dodged the hive’s aerial maneuvering while on lawn-care patrol.

Eventually, the swarm massed near it’s original portal in our neighbor’s abode, and began a new construction project. They were undaunted by his crude plug of caulk.
Liz cried out in disbelief. “Why didn’t they call that telephone number?”

I responded in kind. “Can’t we call it ourselves?”

She was puzzled. “I gave them the article. We don’t have the number… anyway, it’s their property!”

We had arrived at an impasse. Only one solution seemed obvious.

In September, I went into ‘Commando Mode.’

Soccer Fairy protested as I tiptoed into the falling shadows of a Friday night, with an extra-large can of bee spray.

“Mommy!” she protested, with a flip of her blonde curls. “He’s going to spank the bees!”

“Hush!” I said, cautiously. “This is important work.”

I disappeared into the darkness with purpose as my guide.

The hive was huddled along the siding, under its erstwhile front doorway. I smiled while assessing the clump of winged bodies. It provided a perfect target.
My index finger paused over the can. It was a moment of battle and glory on a civilian scale. I crossed myself, then emptied the container of poison in a dramatic, foaming spray!

My pulse quickened with success. A mass of bees dropped to the ground, still thick with residue. The rank concoction ebbed along the siding, and filled every
crack. Bee-agony was palpable in the air.

When I returned to the kitchen, Soccer Fairy was silent. She had lost interest in the raid, and turned her attention to Spongebob Squarepants.

My wife folded her arms as I poured a cup of coffee. “Are you happy now?”

“It had to be done,” I answered in a whisper. “I was protecting my homestead.”

The coffee was refreshing - with a dash of victory for good measure.

Liz stifled a mocking giggle. Her pink mug steamed with fresh Java.
“Thanks for cleaning up this town, Sheriff Rodney!” she said.

I felt the spirit of George Peppard from the ‘A-Team’ in the air. “I love it when a plan comes together!”

My sense of accomplishment lasted about eight hours. With the first hint of morning came a spousal squeal of frustration and surprise.

“They’re here!” Liz screeched, from the front porch.

I was stunned. “Who? Alien invaders? Agent X??”

My wife wasn’t amused. “Look at them! They’ve gone crazy!”

I peered outside. A mass of bees covered both outside lights. They were groggy but restless.

“Your plan didn’t work, Sheriff!” she said tauntingly. “Now what?”

Unusually warm temperatures had kept the rowdy hive healthy and active. I flipped off the light switch. “Sunrise will tempt them away. Don’t worry.”

She stomped her heels. “All they had to do was call that phone number!”

I shrugged my shoulders. “That would bee to easy…but, hive got to say… this really has me buzzed…”

“Stop it!” Liz squeaked.

I took a deep breath. “Okay. Next time I’ll use two cans of bee spray.”

My wife growled like an angry cat. “No more after-dark raids! I’m calling the Neighborhood Watch Committee.”

Defeat grew bitter in my nostrils. It was even more rancid than the stench of bee-poison from my undercover escapade. I pondered the dilemma over another cup of coffee, and breakfast.

“There’s got to bee a way!” I exclaimed.

Our daybreak meal soon became an impromptu family meeting. Soccer Fairy was perturbed as her mother repeated the story of bee abandon. She rubbed sleep from her tiny eyes, and checked the porch from a kitchen window. “They’re still here! What can we do??”

Liz was fuming. She bit her lip. “Where’s the phone?”

“Isn’t it a bit early for Neighborhood Watch?” I said with a grin.

“Mrs. Dlezska is up at dawn, every morning,” she answered. “With her cell phone and a pair of binoculars at the ready.”

“Never mind,” I said. “We’ll get THREE cans of bee spray!”

Suddenly, there was a tuneful explosion of sound from the porch!

Liz and I raced outside. Her expression betrayed sheer panic. I juggled my cup, and a piece of toast. In only a second, my Ohio State sweatshirt dripped coffee.

Soccer Fairy had stationed herself on our front steps, with a pink, Barbie MP3 player. Ozzy Osbourne’s ‘Crazy Train’ was echoing between our house and the neighbor’s insect-ridden abode.

“This will get rid of the bees!” she cheered.

My wife went frantic. “Little Miss, turn that off right now!”

“Maybe it’ll work,” I said hopefully. “Let her give it a try!”

Bombastic guitar riffs filled the air.

“Hit the road, buzzy bees!” The Fairy yowled. “You’re outta hereeeee!”

“Crazy Train, indeed!” Liz protested. “I’m living in a crazy house!”

POSTSCRIPT – Predictably, the experiment in audio warfare also failed to eradicate our neighbor’s bee infestation. Pleas from the Neighborhood Watch Committee fell on deaf ears. But with October came cold, rainy nights that hushed the nest of stinging vagrants. The cycle of nature won out, at last.

Comments about Thoughts At Large may be sent to: icewritesforyou@gmail.com