Ah, the annual bee heist, a tradition as sweet as honey itself, or at least it's supposed to be. Every year, without fail, my husband and his partner-in-crime, Richard, don their beekeeper whites and set out to plunder the hives. And this year, oh, this year was no exception. May 22, 2024, marked another adventure in the world of sticky fingers and buzzing bees.
Now, enter Kelly, our brave friend who had recently decided that beekeeping was her calling.
As they approached the hives, all seemed well until I, armed with my trusty camera from a safe distance, noticed something amiss. Richard, with a determination only matched by a bee with a vendetta, started shuffling away, wielding a brush like some kind of bee-whisperer gone rogue. And then, I saw it — Richard making a beeline for the pond. Literally.
But alas, the bees were onto his aquatic antics. As Richard submerged himself underwater, hoping to escape their wrath, the bees had other plans. They were like, "Oh no, you don't, buddy!" and waited patiently for him to surface, probably plotting their revenge in bee language.
So, while Richard was busy getting acquainted with the local bee population, I, being the smart one, dashed inside to avoid becoming a pin cushion for angry bees. No thanks, I'd rather not be on the receiving end of a bee sting buffet.
Next thing you know, Richard's being rushed to the ER with more bee stings than there are bees in the hive. Seriously, the guy looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a swarm of miniature boxers. But hey, at least he got some steroids out of the deal. Silver linings, right?
In the end, despite the chaos and the hospital visit, we did manage to score some liquid gold. The honey jars were filled to the brim, and we had a tale to tell for years to come. Lesson learned: maybe next time, we'll try negotiating with the bees instead of trying to outsmart them. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with a bee suit and a brush.
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