Commentary

By Bill Barker
Venture contributor

Crampa, why do you like the desert?” “Why can’t we see the wind?” “Why did that bumbly bee sting me?”

Ah, more questions with numerous, correct, multiple answers. They’re from a 5-year-old but still guaranteed to stimulate thought or, maybe, momentary recognition of the flux that solders bits and pieces of the “now” together into something we can decipher — if we want and if we’re quick enough to capture instants. In me that translates into the urge to write.

Possibly that’s just a struggle for some type of immortality. The form that exists in attempting to freeze — in words, rock, paint, whatever medium — the emotions of the “now.”

It can’t really be done because each word becomes ‘past’ as soon as it’s written or read. Maybe the words will make you recall sensations of anger, happiness, beauty, unease, terror, love — or not. Sorry, no matter how I do it, you’re stuck reading some form of history, as I felt it.

But, back to that third, tearful, question about the bumbly bee’s sting.

When Preston was 3, he suddenly developed a fear of bees and wasps of all varieties. We’re not sure where that came from but, with my family’s outdoor lifestyle, he was likely to encounter quite a few of them.

The real problem was his response toward them — swatting or panicked flight. Both of those, along with pheromones, can turn a relatively passive bee into an attacker.

We all tried to explain that he didn’t need to be frightened, just careful, because most stings are in defense of self or nest. Yeah, he’d listen and say he understood, then panic would overwhelm his 3-year-old resolve to remain calm.

I had to figure out a way to change his attitude because the two of us (I’m ‘Crampa’ daycare) spend a lot of time outside playing, and studying backyard nature, between indoor learning sessions.

One day, I pulled out our copy of “The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Insects and Spiders.” Preston was fascinated by the neat pictures of all the crawly critters; particularly the bees and wasps. He’d ask what they all were and want me to read about their habits and lifestyles.

He soon became an expert in identifying (as long as I was holding his hand) the ones that frequented our flowers and herbs. In the process, I began teaching him which were more aggressive and which were less. One of the physical characteristics we used to tell the difference was whether the insect looked fuzzy or was smooth. That was something a 3-year-old could relate to: Honey bees and bumble bees appear more fuzzy, and are less aggressive, while yellow jackets and hornets — often more aggressive — appear smooth.

He started getting a little calmer but was still pretty scared. Then, I somehow had an epiphany and turned my hands into imaginary bumble bees. During our play sessions, my hands would suddenly morph into “one bee (right hand) and two bee (left).”

They’d sprout wings, buzz, and fly up to gently touch his face or ruffle his hair. He’d get his own versions, baby “one and two bee”, going and we’d have a great time flying.

One evening, we were smelling some Rosemary when I pointed out the bumblys that had decided to spend the night hunkered down on their food supply. “Watch this, Preston.” I gently touched the furry back of one.

A leg came up, sleepily trying to brush away the annoying digit. Instant boyish guffaws and, “Can I do that, Crampa?” “Only if I always help you. Just touch it lightly.”

We did. More laughter. That began a somewhat idyllic, if cautious, relationship between Preston and bees. His favorites were always bumblys. It lasted until this August.

Crampa had considered removing the bumble bee nest that had started under one edge of the back steps, during early summer, but they weren’t aggressive and Preston was enjoying them. (Yeah, kinda stupid of me.)

Our guidelines were: Avoid walking or stomping on that edge and not pestering those entering or leaving the entry hole they’d dug.

That worked until dog, Jake, a bee-aphobic, decided to mouth some orbiting bumblys. Annoyed, dampened rejects crawled in and alerted the rest. At that moment, Preston forgot ‘the rules’ and leaped up to tap dance just above the nest.

Though he leapt off, and away, an annoyed bee headed straight for his neck, lit, and stung.

The scream, “Crampa!” and look of horror as I flicked the bee away, was one of those moments that freeze in memories. Yes, it hurt. But what hurt more was that one of his bumblys had attacked him.

As the poultice of Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer (contains Papain, effective in combating stings) worked, we discussed why he’d been stung.

He, nearly 5, understood the logic but it took another month for him to overcome the, reborn, ‘flight’ reflex and decide that he could like bumblys again.

I, annoyed at myself for lapsing into an unrealistic view of nature and knowing the sting was my fault, got rid of the nest that night.

Bill Barker can be reached at billbarker@comcast.net