Lessons from a Keeper by Carmen Schaller

I’m the world’s worst beekeeper. I tell myself this over and over as I try to wrangle Harley back into her harness; she’s as frisky and hyper as ever. I’ve always been stumped when it comes to forging a “special connection” with your worker. Some beekeepers are practically best friends with whatever worker bee they were paired with, while I struggle even to keep Harley in sight. She’s a rowdy little pest.

“Relax, fuzzball,” I grunt, trying to slip my arms into the leather straps and buckle them before she takes off. I’ve always questioned the design of the flight harnesses; surely wearing a bee the size of a husky like some kind of winged backpack is a safety hazard. Sure, she’s been de-barbed and can no longer stab me to death, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t try. Workers are dangerous enough even without the stingers. And I can barely steer her anywhere. 

“Left, left, left, left!” I direct as Harley zooms through the open air. The wind blasts stray wisps of hair away from my face, and now we’re pinwheeling over hills and valleys, far too close to the canopy of trees below. I try to remember the buzz command for “up.” The buzzer on my wrist can only give three frequencies of vibration; the command itself is dictated by the pattern that I press the button in. 

“Pull up,” I gasp, frantically clicking the buzzer. Harley apparently takes this as a signal to start freestyling, and she swings around in a corkscrew before zigzagging toward the ground and pulling up at the last second. Then, she notices a field of flowers up ahead. Before I can get my bearings, she bolts toward it at record speed. As the ground approaches, I realize that she’s not going to slow down to land. I’m about to be dragged through a row of lavender bushes. 

Quick as a flash, I unbuckle my harness and slip out of the straps, dropping to the ground some six feet below. I roll a couple times and end up sprawled out on my back, winded and aching. The hum of Harley’s wings fades out of earshot. 

The sky above is vast and blue, filled with tiny puffs of cloud that roam the winds like lazy sheep. I catch my breath, noting the strong aroma of lavender that permeates the air. I count up my bumps and bruises and get to my feet, then scan my surroundings. The field must be some kind of farm, because there are long, straight rows of plants filling acres and acres of space. There’s not a single crop to be seen; every bush and plant in the field is some kind of flower. From in between rows of lavenders, I can spot bluebells, carnations, marigolds, and at least five different colors of tulips. The breeze shifts slightly, carrying a fresh medley of scents my way. With the sunshine on my skin, I almost smile…

…Until I remember that I’m going to have to track down the little pest and wrangle her back into submission if I’m going to make it back to the hive before dark. I groan in frustration and start walking in the direction I think Harley may have gone. There’s a large barn nearby, and I figure she must have zipped off behind it, because she’s nowhere in sight. Sure enough, as I approach the side of the barn, I can hear the hum of her wings. I round the corner, then freeze at the sight that meets me.

An old man in a straw hat is hunkered down in the grass, reaching out one leathery, brown hand to stroke Harley’s abdomen. One could almost mistake the giant honey bee for some kind of messed-up dog if you squint hard enough. Harley is still hyper, but she’s behaving so nicely; all she does is buzz her wings sporadically to communicate her excitement. Her harness is off and lying on the ground several feet away. I stare for a moment before clearing my throat to get the man’s attention.

“Excuse me,” I begin, “I’m terribly sorry to bother you-”

“Well, howdy do,” the old man says, looking over at me. “You must be this bee’s keeper, huh?” 

“Yes,” I nod, “I’m afraid she got a little out of control when she saw your field. She’s a menace,” I can’t help adding.

“Nah,” he says softly, turning back to Harley, who wanders out of his arm’s length and starts snuffling at the nearest patch of roses. “She’s no menace. She’s a sweetheart.” I beg to differ, but it’s no use complaining to an old man. I simply put on an awkward smile as he straightens up, twisting his hoary beard thoughtfully.

“I can get her back in her harness and we’ll be out of your hair,” I offer. He gives me a long, leisurely look. His eyes are dark and peaceful. 

“You ain’t in nobody’s hair,” he says slowly. “Ain’t no problem to me. You got a great worker here, she got a name?”

“Harley,” I say reluctantly.

“Harley got potential,” he tells me. He tips his head a little and leans forward like he’s telling me a secret. “Lots of potential. Worker like Harley got a long life ahead of ‘er if you train ‘er up right. How long you been beekeeping?”

“It’ll be one year this next Sunday,” I say, and he and a smile like the sun itself spreads across his face, deepening the crinkles around his eyes. Crooked, white teeth flash between cracked, brown lips as he gives a deep, friendly chuckle. 

“One year this Sunday,” he repeats with what sounds like amazement. “I tell you what, child, the second year is the year you gon’ blossom. You got that? You gon’ shine this year.” 

“That’ll surprise the boss,” I snort.

“How d’you mean?” he says.

“I’m easily the worst beekeeper in the hive,” I admit, cringing, “My worker bee hates me, and I think I’ve broken the record for least nectar collected in a month.”

“You’d have to be pretty darn bad to beat my record,” the old man replies, “My first year beekeepin’, they nearly tossed me straight out the hive.” He looks around in amusement. “I’d never ‘a gotten nowhere if my daddy weren’t there to show me the ropes. You say your worker hates you? I say she loves you.”

“Did she tell you that?” I say skeptically.

“May as well ‘ave.” The humor never once leaves his eyes, nor does the warmth in his tone. “The way she zippin’ about, nuzzlin’ up to my hand then bouncin’ off to who knows where just beggin’ to do ‘er part. She ain’t got nothing but love to give, and she gon’ give it any way she can. What you gotta do is show ‘er how it’s done.”

“Loving?” I say.

“Lovin’,” he nods, “When you workin’ in the hive, lovin’ is servin’ and servin’ is lovin’. And lovin’ is the only way to live. Bees got that built right into ‘em. Clever design, you see. Harley ain’t got no hate in ‘er, you just gotta learn to see how she tryin’ to help and point ‘er in the right direction.”

“How do I direct her if she won’t listen to me?” I ask.

“If she ain’t hearin’ you, it ain’t cuz she ain’t listenin’,” he insists, “She just don’t understand you quite right. Once you get in the same rhythm–” He snapped his fingers. “–right quick, she’ll be a dream come true.”

“How am I supposed to find the right… rhythm?” I ask, more confused than ever. 

“You gotta figure that out,” he says, “By understandin’ her enthusiasm. That’s the key. You match her spirit with your own, and pretty soon you’ll understand each other perfectly.” Noticing the doubt etched on my face, he adds, “I don’t mean you gotta be all jazzed up and bouncin’ off clouds like she is. Just remember that you’re part of the colony just as much as any o’ them bees are. You gotta love the hive like she do, or you ain’t no beekeeper at all.”

“I do love the hive,” I protest.

“Well then you gotta live like it,” he answers, “And once Harley catches your drift, she gon’ pour all that love out at your feet and you’ll realize just how special a beekeeper’s job really is. Now buzz ‘er over here and pop that harness back on so she can see you’re as excited as she is.”

I hesitantly tap the buzzer on my wrist to call Harley back to me. She perks up and zooms through the air, shooting past my head and circling me a few times before getting distracted again. I try the command again, and she comes hurtling at me, this time bowling me over onto my back. I grunt and wrap my arms around her, trying to keep her in place. 

“Let ‘er squirm,” the old man says, looking on in amusement. I release Harley and let her crawl around on top of me before hopping off and letting me get back up. She flicks her wings expectantly. I reach for her harness and place my hand on the back of her head where it joins her thorax. She hums irritably and pulls away from my grasp. The old man tuts and shakes his head.

“Nah, child, you never hide what you’re doin’ from ‘er. You put your hand there, you blockin’ ‘er vision an’ makin’ ‘er nervous. You gotta show ‘er you’re not doin’ no harm,” he instructs, “Just stroke ‘er wings real firm and she’ll know you mean ‘er to stay put”

I follow his advice, and Harley twitches a little, but lets me clip her into her harness. Kneeling in front of her, I slide the straps on, and she walks her pollen-dusted feet up onto my shoulders. 

“Now, remember your buzz commands and be patient with ‘er,” the old man says, nodding with satisfaction. 

“Thank you,” I tell him, and once more, that brilliant smile crinkles his face. 

“You come ‘round whenever you want,” he replies. “I like to know what’s happenin’ in the hive. You wanna bring me a spare spoonful o’ honey, I wouldn’t refuse that neither. Hop on your way, child.”

I give him one last smile as Harley buzzes her wings impatiently, and then we’re off, spiraling through the infinite summer sky.