B-Day

I recently posted my video short on bees living in my spa. Yesterday was B-Day when I invaded the tranquility of my unwanted guests. My reconnaissance was rather limited. I knew my enemy was armed and dangerous. Since bees are normally beneficial to farmers, I wanted to evict my “guests” without causing great collateral damage.

My research said that I was on solid ground with eviction, especially under our current administration. I found out that honeybees are not native to North America, but they are essentially Europeans without green cards.  Yes, honeybees came with white settlers in 1622.  Mormon honeybees moved later to Utah in 1848.  Since none of my spa bees were carrying pamphlets, I assumed these were not of the Mormon persuasion.

I originally estimated my bee infestation at around 300 bees. To get a more accurate reading I sent a picture of my swarming bees to the White House and told them that these were all Trump fans and I wanted an accurate count for publication purposes. They got back to me with an estimate of “at least 3 million.” I will compromise those figures and say that I was dealing with 3,000-armed adversaries.

You have to wear the right gear when battling the multitudes.

I had planned to pitch the story of my battle with Apis mellifera to be made into a blockbuster movie, but I knew that a comparable film already had been named “300.” That original work involved a retelling of the Battle of Thermopylae during the Persian Wars where 300 Spartans battled 300,000 Persians in order to steal their rugs. At least I think it was all about rugs, I may have my Persian history confused.  Twisted history is popular these days so I will stand by, or on, my carpet theory. My personal battle with these illegal alien invaders had all the earmarks to be an event of similarly epic proportions.  The numbers were right, one against 3,000.  A battle of wits was about to start and I was going in as the underdog.

Never fear, Underdog is here

While the rest of the world dealt with Covid-19, I was forced to deal with a more formidable enemy, Beevid-20. In the week before B-Day I had unsuccessfully tried to use peppermint oil that I heard they didn’t like. No joy. I would also later try to dust them with garlic powder that they supposedly couldn’t stand, only to find that my European bees were probably from Italy. I say this because when I doused them with the garlic powder I swear I heard them say, “mangia, mangia.” If my honeybees were truly Italian, they would be Apis mellifera ligustica. I looked closely at the hive to see if I could spot a red and white checkered tablecloth but found only a very small bottle of Chianti.

The garlic powder might work on some bees, but not on the Italian ones.

I worked out my battle gear, which would be fine for anyone fighting Covid-19 or Beevid-20. I had long pants, socks and sneakers, gloves, a tee shirt and a long sleeve shirt, a hat with a towel for back neck protection, a wrap-around eye shield, and a ventilator mask. I would be an intimidating spectacle for any European bee, even an Italian one with a switchblade. Cue the music from West Side Story. I know that WSS was about Puerto Rican gangs but the music would be cooler than anything comparable from The Godfather or The Sopranos. Who knows, there could have been some Puerto Rican bees living in one of the many hive neighborhoods.

West Side Story bees in flight.

Well, much like the original D-Day, things didn’t go as planned. I had to remove the large panel from the side of the spa and my electric screwdriver gave out after about four screw removals. I had two more screws and eight long bolts to go so I called for Lieutenant Sue to retrieve another electric screwdriver. She arrived with reinforcements and the battle was on. The panel came off and I saw the hive covered in worker bees protecting their bee vomit, aka honey.

Queen for just one day longer.

As the peppermint and garlic hadn’t worked, I had to find a different solution. I tried my mosquito fogger but that didn’t faze them other than to cause them to get a bit agitated. I wanted docile bees not a bunch of pissed-off females. This may sound sexist but you should know that, as in humans, only the females have stingers. Whoops, I guess that sounded sexist after all.

I tried the fogger and they just took up smoking.  They haven't heard about the Surgeon General's report.

I finally came up with a solution and I broke out my large shop-vac. I was able to literally suck up the hive, bees, and all, into the large vacuum storage container. I then marched the vacuum to an area near my back fence and dumped the contents.  Now, obviously, a few bees met their maker. You don’t get sucked at high velocity down a long black corrugated tube and slammed into a deflector shield without some injuries and yes, a few lost souls. There are still plenty of bees left to rebuild.

Note the bees clinging to the wax hive at the end of the vacuum tube.

Bee survivors trying to figure out what just happened.  What a rush.

As for the blockbuster movie of this monumental triumph of the human spirit over a natural challenger, I have suffered a major setback. I had picked Ron Howard to direct this epic piece of a sure-fire classic film. He had expressed an interest in my project and had promised financial backing but he reconsidered once he heard that Aunt Bee was among the missing. As my cousin-in-law Herb used to say, “Some days chicken, and some days feathers.” In this instance, it might just suffice to say, some days it’s honey and other days it’s just bee vomit.