When I was in elementary school, a book series called Goosebumps was released. It was a series of scary books for elementary students, and I read the first thirty-something of them when they came out. One of them was called Why I'm Afraid of Bees.
This blog post is almost completely unrelated to the book, though it does explain why I'm afraid of bees.
Growing up on Fernwood Street in Roseville, my grandmother lived up on the next street (Griggs). On holidays where we'd get together with my father's side of the family, I'd walk out the back door of my parents' house and walk for about a minute and I'd be in grandma's back yard.
Every now and then, my parents would have a bunch of people over, but I'd still make the walk through the backyards - through the Hamernicks' yard where Romain or Bernie would be tending their garden and would greet me warmly, through the yard next to theirs which was usually full of children as it hosted a daycare service. There are some occasions on which my parents have a party at their house (the fourth of July being one), and they need some extra tables and chairs and stuff. On those days, I made the walk to my grandma's house to get her red picnic table and its benches.
It was a long, sturdy, wooden red table; its age gave the red paint a grayish tone. It had some heft to it. I used to measure my strength by how easy it was to carry one half of the table (usually with one of my brothers on the other side) and one of the two benches (with one of my brothers carrying the other).
The top of the table consisted of three long, flat wooden boards, probably six or seven inches wide, with about a half inch of space between them. The legs of the table were X's on each end. The benches had two flat wooden boards apiece, probably about half as wide as the boards which comprised the table's top. Again, wooden X's on the end to give solid support. The whole thing was very well-constructed.
This is where I was sitting on an early summer day (I was probably eight or nine years old) when a bee landed on my leg.
I didn't know what to do. I had never really had to deal with this before. I had a rush of adrenaline that made my leg hyper-sensitive to the bee's movements. I could feel each of the bee's feet landing on my leg like little pin pricks. It was my right leg, a little under half way down my lower leg at the point where my shin starts to become my calf.
My mom was there; she saw me freaking out. "Just stay still. If you don't bother the bee, he won't bother you. Leave him alone, and he'll leave."
The bee left. I held this advice in high regard, it having saved me from pain, and I made sure to remember it.
Some weeks later, I was in the backyard running around with my sisters. It was mid-day, so the sun was high overhead, shining with an intense brightness that I like much less than the golden laziness with which the summer sun shines in the evening. In my memory, the red table and benches are sitting out on my parents' patio, but it's entirely possible that they weren't there. It was sunny, and the Japanese lilac tree in the backyard was still healthy enough to provide a huge patch of shade at the end of the patio.
In the normal course of running around as a kid, I wandered past established boundaries and into the neighbor's yard on the north side of the house - the side opposite the Hamernicks, opposite the day care house, opposite my grandma's house.
I ran up the four-or-so feet of slope which took me from my parent's yard into Hazel Christensen's yard. Hazel is a sweet old lady with whom I never spoke until I made some small talk with her now and then after I got out of high school. She is a widow. Now that she's pretty old, her family visits her more often, I imagine because her physical capabilities are lessening. I still say "hi" if she's around when I pop into my parents' house.
The top of the slope from my parents' yard into Hazel's was marked by a tree. I don't remember what kind of tree it is, but we always ended up with a decent portion of its leaves in the fall. On that summer day, running around with my sisters, running away from the Hamernicks', away from the day care house, away from grandma's and from her table and from the Japanese lilac tree - I ran around to the far side of the tree, placing me squarely on top of a bee's nest.
I remembered my mother's advice.
Just stay still. If you don't bother the bee, he won't bother you. Leave him alone, and he'll leave.
My body quivered in pain as I stood directly over the bee's nest, hot tears pouring over my face. I just stayed still. I didn't bother the bees...with the exception of trampling their home and killing their family members. They took it personally, dozens of them handing my pudgy, nine year-old ass to me.
My sisters ran inside to get my mother, who ran outside to tell me to stop standing there and to run away. I made my way inside and my mother tended to me, feeling a mountain of guilt over my stupid-ass interpretation of her normally sound advice. I don't remember what she applied to my many, many wounds, but it was gritty. I don't remember ever dealing with the stuff before or since. I just sat there and cried and hurt and felt bad that my mother felt bad.
That's why I'm afraid of bees.
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