Q: Why did the bee sting the beekeeper?
A: Wouldn’t you be mad, too, if somebody took your honey and nectar?
That corny (but sublime) joke was told to me many years ago by a professor in a graduate level Biology class. It’s weird how I don’t remember actually learning much in that class but I vividly remember that bit of questionable humor. Anyway, after I told this joke to a friend recently (it was sadly under appreciated, by the way) it occurred to me that, other than passing mentions, I haven’t blogged about our bees. This, I think, is partly because I am still very much an amateur beekeeper with a lot to learn and partly because there is just so much immensely cool stuff to say about bees that it’s tough to find a starting point. Since I gotta start somewhere it seems logical to start at the start with a brief history of the honeybees of Michel-Schlumberger.
It wasn’t exactly an auspicious start.
It seemed easy enough, though. In late Summer of 2007 April Lance, a friend of Jacques, offered to give us a hive of honeybees. All we had to do was pick it up. Jacques, who had some bee keeping experience, was busy that day and told us simply to drive the five miles down to April’s house, load the hive into the truck, and drive it back to the winery. Brunson and I, who had zero beekeeping experience at the time, hopped into the truck, thinking such an activity would be both fun and easy.
Now a quick word on honeybees. Though they certainly pack a mean punch with their stings, this weapon is very rarely used. Honeybees are generally extremely passive critters. A foraging honeybee will almost never sting, even if provoked. Even nesting bees in the hive are shockingly mellow. We typically tend our hives with bare hands (many keepers work in shorts and a t-shirt) and only suffer the occasional sting in the event we work too slow and wear out our welcome. But if one upsets a hive by, oh, say, disassembling it and moving it - then the story is a bit different.
So back to our fun and easy bee run. When we arrived at April’s she suited up head to toe and quickly began 
taking apart one of her many hives and moving the frames of buzzing bees to the truck bed. It was then I learned my very first lesson in apiculture – bees don’t like that much. Barbara Schlumberger had stopped by earlier to share in the fun and the three of us stood in t-shirts and jeans about 100 feet from April and the hives. I guess maybe the bees realized that April was invincible in her suit and looked around for others to vent their fury. Those others would be me & Brunson and Barbara. First I noticed quite a few bees swarming around our heads. A second later Brunson cried out “OUCH!” and slapped the side of his neck. Then it was on. Brunson and Barbara ran to nearby cars for safety. I took the less complicated tact of sprinting about 100 yards up the road, screaming and waving my hands frantically around my head. By the time things calmed down the three of us had suffered a total of around 12 stings and Barbara was rushed to the hospital for a severe reaction.
But that seems like such a long time ago now. Barbara, thankfully, recovered and went on to found the Melissa Garden dedicated to honeybee conservation. Brunson and I finally got the hive back to the winery, where it sits today with two additional hives we created by capturing a swarm and splitting the original hive. And our honeybees are the mellowest, friendliest, happiest bees on earth. Just don’t try and move them.
With that bit of history officially recorded, stay tuned for future blogs on the beyond-incredible honeybee.
