Anaphylactic Shock

 September 13, 2020

For as long as I can remember, dad had an epi pen nearby wherever he went. I don’t recall the incident behind it all; just that he was allergic to bee stings. As far as I know, he never had to use it, so I’ve not given it much thought, even when after twenty years, I’ve started keeping bees again. 

They’re fascinating little creatures; a colony can consist of up to 100,000 bees, though most fall far short of that. The colony is considered by some to be a single organism, in that it operates as one, rather than as separate bees. The queen is the lifeblood of the hive; queenless, the colony is restless and aggressive, and will die unless she is replaced. Linda likes to remind me that the workers are all female, and that the drones’ sole purpose is to mate with a virgin queen. I remind her that only the female worker bees can sting you. I guess we’re even. 

A friend called this afternoon regarding a swarm that has taken up residence inside the wall of his barn. I went over to check it out, but most of the colony had gotten inside; the only way of getting them out is to remove the siding and hope we can capture the queen. If we can, the rest of the bees will follow peaceably. I’ll check again tomorrow, but I’m not confident we can get them without major surgery on the barn. Barring that, the colony will have to be killed, which I hate to see. We need all the pollinators we can get.

When I got home, I needed to tend my own colonies, one of which gives signs of overcrowding. I’ve been wanting to do so for a few days, but other chores kept getting in the way. So I suited up and started digging into the hive, moving a couple frames of brood from the brood chamber to a second box above it and replacing those frames with foundation (frames with a starter sheet of wax embossed in a honeycomb pattern). Hopefully, they’ll build new comb, giving the queen room to lay her eggs.

I wouldn’t like someone tearing into my house and rearranging things without my permission, and these little critters weren’t too happy to have me disrupting their nursery. Despite my being suited up, I received four or five stings on my left arm. A single honeybee sting burns at first, before it turns to itching. Four or five in the space of about two square inches on my forearm doesn’t itch; it aches. Tender to the touch and a bit swollen, it’s a reminder that the reward of sweet honey has a price. I’m willing to pay it, not just for the honey, but for the fascination of watching these little ladies work their magic. I’m just thankful that dad’s allergies aren’t part of my genetic heritage. If they were, I wouldn’t be writing tonight.