Meg's husband John (Not to be confused with my husband John.) looked out the kitchen window one morning on our visit and observed that sometimes one of those bumblebees just died while perched on a flower. "Now's my chance," I thought, "to get a real close up without the bee rushing off before I get the camera focused. " so there I was in among the lavender squeezing off shots of this dead bee when suddenly he wiggled his antennae at me and announced in no uncertain terms that, like Mark Twain, the rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated. I'm just glad I didn't attempt to poke him into a better position.
