Bad-Ass Bee

I hate being chased from my own garden.

Catmandoo, our sometimes benign Lord of the Universe, is quite a gardener. Besides ensuring, from fall to spring - when I block him from the garden beds with a combination of old window screens, pieces of chicken wire, criss-crossed bamboo stakes and other bits of jetsam that will protect the newly planted seeds and seedlings until they get big enough to do battle with him themselves - that the raised beds are well-fertilized and dug over, he has propagated at least a dozen giant catnip patches from one small plant I set for him many years ago. Sometimes new catnip plants appear unexpectedly in the middle of a bed of something else and I have to remove it, other times he roots them at corners of the patchwork of many-sized beds that comprise my garden, or even in a pathway. Those I usually leave alone, except to prop them up as they grow many feet tall, and trim them so His Lordship can lounge under them without having to crush a bed of beets, for example, in the process. 

Bees love the catnip, and eventually all the patches are fully in flower and redolent with bees. Catman takes his gardening seriously and every morning makes the rounds to each patch to trim the edges, but he can’t keep up with their growth, since the consequence of regular trimming is extreme cat lassitude. He generally makes his rounds again in early evening, but mostly to check for mouse invasion and to chase Beastreau out of his domain if she gets too bold. 

Because he has patches located all over the garden, my garden is usually a-hum with bees, even during the gaps in the season when nothing else is in flower. I enjoy listening to the bees, and mostly they ignore me after determining that the colorful elastic band that keeps my long braid contained isn’t a happy new flower needing to be pillaged of its pollen.  But recently one exceptionally loud buzzer was determined to burrow beneath my braid, and freaked me out by getting caught in my hair.

Bad-Ass Bee, Deb Marshall art

The usual flick didn’t release her; and I couldn’t see her because she was up near my neck. I tried ignoring her but the buzzing was entirely too close to my ear, so I did the release-the-braid, shake-the-head like crazy dance – which had no effect at all. Trying to stay calm, I walked away from the area, then, a little faster, away from the garden; then, in a jog, back to the house, where the bee finally let go. 

Okay, that was weird. I tucked the pink-elastic end of my braid deep into my shirt, and went back to work in the other end of the garden, where – within minutes – the neck-loving bee rejoined me and re-engaged in my hair. Now I was seriously freaked, and quickly retreated to the house, wondering if I was going to have to take the darn thing in with me. We had a slightly enhanced discussion just outside the door, and it finally let go. I went in.

Huh. I wasn’t wearing a fragrance; I hadn’t recently washed my hair; the pink elastic was far out of sight. What was it with this bee? Weirdness, but third time’s a charm, right? Back to the garden I went, after taking a few minutes to calm down, to yet a third area in the garden, saying hello politely to the bees working there. And then – and then – there it was again, and it went straight for my neck again. This time I hightailed back to the house, bee in hot pursuit.

Door slammed, I puttered about for a half hour, then put on that net shirt we all have (but never use) that covers the head and face, to keep black flies off during their season. For good measure, I also put on the hat with the anti-blackfly face and neck netting, and pulled the string tight. No way the stupid bee was getting into my hair this time! But just to be sure, I went to yet a fourth part of the garden.

Where I calmly picked beans for about 4 minutes before – yes! – the bee was back! This time it went for my face, so I got a look at it through the double-netting: it was big, fuzzy, and dark, and extremely determined. It climbed down the face net and started burrowing, looking for an opening at the neck.

I know when I’m beat. I deserted my garden basket and beat it back to the house. It was too hot to breathe under the double netting anyway. I shed the nets and went into the screen house on the deck to feel sorry for myself.

When the Husband and the Tall Dude got back from their bike ride, I told them about the bee from hell. And, of course, they laughed at me. So I sent the Husband into the garden to retrieve the basket and pick the rest of the beans. Within minutes, he was hustling back to the house, waving the basket around his head and cussing. The bee was still on patrol.

I’m not going back into the garden unless I’m armed with the garden hose. I may end up soaked, but I’m guessing the bee will like it less than I do.

I did discover something interesting, though, during this battle. The patch of shell beans I’ve been cussing out because they haven’t been blooming, actually have. They’ve climbed into the peach tree to do it, however. Come fall, I’m going to be picking shell beans out of the tree – unless the darned bee gets me first.