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My father opened a honeybee ranch in 1978. This endeavor was not
successful financially, but it was a great learning experience for my
younger brother and me. We learned a bee can’t be trained to any great
degree. Sodium nightlights will not prompt them to work at night—nor will
verbal threats.
A bee is a small insignificant insect; however, when thousands of bees are
of one mind on a matter, they can be quite persuasive. Oh, and they won’t
take bridle and bit nor wear a harness. They are not much like mules or
people.
A herd of honeybees is a disorganized workforce. They buzz about willy-
nilly without any organizational sense at all. Quality control, waste
management, optimum production level, all these terms mean very little to
a bee.
My father is seldom satisfied with the work ethic of others. His honeybees
were soon disappointing him.
Earl decided if the bees would work together, and carry a bucket,
production levels would soar up to near-acceptable.
My father designed a harness to implement his production enhancement
strategy.
A multi-bee harness is a tedious piece of leatherwork—but not impossible,
once the blinders are attached without blinding the bee; however, a bee’s
legs and neck are not as flexible as you might think.
A bee will sting you with sufficient provocation. A harness is sufficient.
The small bells I thought were such a stylish touch did little to impress the
bees.
The blinders, though a good idea in theory, caused eight bees, pulling a
teacup, to fly into our neighbor, Mr. Johnson’s, car window.
Mr. Johnson, tangled up in the bee harness, bells tinkling to the rhythm of
his stinging cries, was a sight that caused me many nightmares, and cost
old man Johnson an eye. The teacup broke.
That was the last year we got a Christmas card from Mr. Johnson. I guess
his writing deteriorated when he got the patch. His fingers were still
flexible.
The leather harnesses chafed the bees’ sides—when it didn’t handicap
them for life.
It’s hard to get eight tiny bees into a harness when they see the first group
of bee volunteers hobbling along on three legs apiece. They would stand
on three left legs, and buzz their right wing to stay upright.
A three-legged bee can still fly, but his take off and landing ability is greatly
impaired. For weeks after the harness incident, we would find bees
crashed around the yard, their three remaining legs pointing accusingly up
at my brother and me. I felt guilty, but like the Nazi soldiers, I was just
following orders and would never have harnessed a bee on my own.
The rawhide harnesses didn’t pan out. We had a nest of 2000 bees that
would go in to frenzy at the smell of leather. We couldn’t keep a cow or an
Italian leather jacket anywhere on the property.
A honeybee is a small insect. If hornets could be taught to collect honey,
then you have a substantial workforce.
That idea ended in a trip to the emergency room.
Nurse: Mr. Hurst, how did you manage to get stung 36 times over the
course of a two-day weekend.
Earl: Because a hornet is a damned, obstinate insect, who hasn’t any
notion of how a partnership works or the tax benefits of a corporation.
Nurse: I have a Dr. on the third floor who probably needs to speak to you
after we get some anti-allergen in your system Mr. Hurst.
Worker-Bees do not speak English. However, if sixty or so bees sting you
all around the yard and ears—this is easily translated.
Andy: I don’t think the bees like the harnesses.
I agreed with that translation.