There are so many bees out there that I ended up with too many pictures, finally resorting to a sort Dr. Doolittle selection process (spin the globe, close your eyes, put your finger on a spot and travel there).
It seemed for a while that this writing project was turning towards tales of parenting. And then, perhaps towards the diarist’s self-exploration, the wallowing in the self that sometimes comes so appallingly naturally. And, inevitably, towards writing about the writing process itself. How predictable projects can be. I’m trying to hold fast to the creed that all projects lead somewhere unexpected and that I should hold fast during this mid-project slump.
Certainly there is no slump in the bee world, though in these parts all manner of flying fuzzy yellow creatures are called bees be they wasps or hornets. They’re as busy as metaphor would have it.
Here’s a tale from Liam’s childhood, one that I may or may not have written already, but it does involve an insect. He was about 4. We went to my aunt’s house and spent some time in her garden. Liam found a lady bug and wanted to bring it home. “No,” I said, “she will be much happier here.” “But I want to bring her.” “No.” Then my aunt intervened in the manner of in indulgent grandparents everywhere: “Oh, let him bring the ladybug home. What’s the harm?” I gave in and Miss Ladybug came home. A little later I was busy in the kitchen fixing dinner and Liam came in. “I need some scotch tape,” he announced. “Why?” I inquired. “I have to fix my ladybug,” he said.
The ladybug’s wing had come off. It was an “Oh honey” moment as I had to explain that scotch tape was inadequate for such repairs. We took the poor little creature out onto the balcony and put her into a flower planter. I probably refrained from pointing out that she would still be alive if we had left her in tante Christiane’s garden, but I certainly thought it. Later, when Liam went to visit her, the ladybug had vanished. He asked if she was dead. I said I didn’t know but that it was probable. He became completely inconsolable. He shrieked and wailed and keened, an outpouring of grief worthy of a professional mourner who attends funerals to ululate on behalf of the bereaved. In the middle of all this he suddenly demanded out of the blue, “Where did tante Ruth go when she died?”
I couldn’t answer his question, though, since I’ve always believed in answering children’s questions as directly as possible, I’m sure I tried my best. But there really isn’t a good explanation for ceasing to exist. I know that it is developmentally spot-on for a four-year old to think about death, but it never-the-less brought me up short to become aware that he made such a connection. My aunt Ruth had died about six months before that and Liam had not seemed particularly upset at her death or her funeral.
I’d rather have just talked about the dead ladybug.
I liked reading your narrative...you really write so strongly about your experiences -- I feel like I am there in the moment. And the processing with the bee works so well. These poor creatures are really shrinking in numbers...it fits with your narrative.
I know how you feel about having to pick a shit from a million bee or butterfly pics! This is a cool one! And I enjoyed reading your story about Liam and the Ladybug.... Wow. Very moving.
