May 23, 2013
I drove out to Farmer B.’s place yesterday afternoon. He had loaded up his new bee hives with colonies. The insects were pissed, having traveled for three hours in the back of his pickup truck. In spite of his astronaut suit, one bee stung Farmer B. next to his eye.
Soon the fields filled with bees. Poppies and blue bachelor buttons were swarmed and glutted. White lilacs and five colors of irises filled up with bees.
The tall prairie grass was filled with dog-eye sulfur butterflies. We drank Stag beer and ate pork steak, radishes and asparagus fresh picked from the ground, surrounded by house and goldfinches and crazy mockingbirds.
Tar the old, deaf dog walked up to the hives and sniffed them and learned a painful life lesson. Which grandchild—Marley, Payton, Piper, Kian and Brice—will be the first to be stung?