The life of a bee, according to a bee.

    Fall is here, and the crops are quickly failing.  We've worked them to the last drop, and now it's time to close up for the winter and prepare for the cold.
    My duties as a field bee are temporarily suspended for the winter season.  My job now, in these few brief weeks before the snow arrives, is to seal up the hive and insulate it to keep the cold winds out during the long months ahead.
    Crops proved to be decent this year, and we have plenty of surplus honey.  Disease is low, and the last bunch of bees born before the winter layover seem to be healthy.  We should have a good winter.
    Today is unusually warm and clear for this time of year, an Indian summer if you will, or a summer-like day in the early fall, if you won't.  I'm just now on my way back to the hive.  I've been out stretching my wings and getting some fresh air.  Looking ahead, I see a tall, white creature approaching our hive.  I fly faster now as the creature, a honey thief, breaks into the hive through the roof.
    Darting through the entrance, my first concern is for the queen.  Where is she?  I call out, but all is confusion and chaos.  As I frantically search, the food storage story above me is ripped off and the whole hive is severally shaken.  Those are our winter stores; I must protect them!
    I dart at the honey thief in a vain attempt to force him to release the honey.  No luck, I can't find a way to get at his sensitive inner skin.  I attack his face, but it too is protected.
    Not to be thwarted, I search the inner folds of his throat region for an opening.  Honey thieves are known to be especially vulnerable in this area.  The air is thick with smoke now, and it's hard to stay oriented, but I burrow in deeper and deeper through the outer layers of skin.
    And then I see it, a small opening leading to the inner pink flesh.  I quickly call to the others to follow me in and then, knowing that I'm about to forfeit my life in defense of my colony, I plunge my stinger into the soft, hot flesh.
    Unbearable pain is my reward, as my guts are ripped from my body.  In my dying moments, I see other bees attacking this same spot, some from my colony and others from nearby colonies, and I know my sacrifice has paid off.  This honey thief will suffer for his actions.  My hive will be safe again.  Brandi will live to see another spring.   All... hail... the Queennnnnn.......

*Warning!  The following material is B-rated and may not be suitable for larva and young pupa.*

    Today I went out to get some water to bring back to the hive.  It was a warm, sunny morning with bright blue skies and not a trace of a cloud.  On my way to the creek, I passed a large cat napping in the lush, green grass under the shade of a maple tree.  She looked so content, I could almost feel her purring as I flew by.
    The creek trickled through a slight depression in the woods.  A small rock along the far bank made for a nice landing spot,  so I stopped and collected a few drops of water to carry home.  Many bees from other hives in our community were also gathering water.  We exchanged some local gossip.
    "Has anyone heard about the swarm that was in the old oak tree?" I asked.
    An older bee on the other side of the rock answered me, "They all broke up a couple of weeks ago.  Couldn't find a decent place to escape the weather.  Some of the refugees came to our hive.  Said the old queen gave out and everyone split."
    "Ah, that's too bad."  Our old friends didn't make it then.  Not surprising really, though.  These days, it's hard to survive even under the best of conditions.  What with the viruses, bacteria, ant raiders, wax worms, honey thieves, and mites... Lord help us, the mites!  If you get 'em, you're through.  They'll eat you alive, from the inside out and the outside in.  Pretty soon you can't fly, then you can't walk.  Others will slowly suffocate you, you can't breathe.  Life is hard enough without all of these pests.
    I quenched my thirst and went into the field, searching for the perfect flower.  There were lots of possibilities to choose from, and I could have any one, within limits.  Some were old and raggedy, unappealing, while others were still too young to open up and allow me to taste the sweet nectar within.  But many, in fact most, were within the right age range for me to visit.  I just had to pick the one.
    I was looking for a special flower, a beautiful flower, one that I couldn't possibly take my eyes off of.  Many flowers were dull and unattractive, I hardly glanced at these.  My search was for the brightest, most vivid beauty I could find.
    My eyes detected her beauty, but it was her sweet scent that drew me in.  When I got close, her smell was so thick in the air, it nearly blinded me.  I landed on her soft petal and gently traipsed around her face, kissing her with my feet, exploring for her wet cavity, that warm hole that promised to be filled with a rich juice which satisfied even the gods.
    With bold strokes, I darted my long tongue in and out between the walls surrounding my fairest's richness.  I groaned with agony and excitement as I reached for that hidden nectar pot.  Tensely, I yearned for her priceless treasure, and, when it seemed I could reach no further, the flavor of her sweet nectar exploded on my outstretched tongue and engulfed my senses completely.
    Exhausted and fulfilled, I left that fair maiden and slowly journeyed home, practically in a daze.  When I arrived,  I told my story to others, and I rested, but only briefly.  For there were other flowers in that field, each begging for my company.  Soon, I would visit another, and then another, as many as I could until one day, late in life, my wings would give out and I would fly no more.
   

The life of a bee, according to a bee.

    I was off into the fields the next morning.  It was a warm, humid mid-summer day, and I was excited to see the sights, hear the sounds, and smell the scents of this beautiful world.  All of the flowers smiled at me, and the trees begged me to come pay them a visit.  I had dreamed of this for a long time.
    There were dangers out here, too.  Birds, toads, skunks, even dogs would snap at a bee busy at work.  Even the weather could become life-threatening at times.  A sudden storm, with its heavy rains, could knock a girl out of the air into a wet grave.  A sudden drop of temperature could chill one before she could safely return home.
    The risks were plenty, but the freedom was worth it.  Gone were the dark, hot days in the hive, where one could get lost in the crowds and practically forget her own name and face.  No more taking orders from whoever was giving them at the time.  I was my own boss now, and I had a job to do.
    I didn't have much time either.  In less than two months, the crops would be through.  Whatever we'd collected by that time would have to last us through the winter.  Plus, we had to get as much extra nectar and pollen as possible, in case of a long winter or the inevitable honey thieves in the fall.  We had to make the most of every day.

    Work can get to be pretty tedious at times.  It really seems like a bee's work is never done.  We're constantly on the go, searching for food, cleaning house, and taking care of the youngsters.  Sometimes I can't help but wonder, "Why do it at all?"
    I mean, there are some bees, not many, but a few, who hardly do anything at all.  They just find a quiet, secluded corner in the hive and hide out there constantly.  When they get hungry, they help themselves to food that I and others have been collecting all day.  When it gets cold or they're in need of something, they come to those of us who've been working and act like they've been there all along, working just as hard as the next girl.
    Sometimes I just get tired of working for those lazy bums.  Why should I be working my stinger off, when they're doing nothing but living off the fruits of my hard labor?  I could just as easily be a lazy, no-good beatnik, doing nothing useful whatsoever for my hive, but I don't.  I work and take care of my own needs and the needs of the hive as a whole, even the lazy bum bees who eat up our resources and give nothing back in return.  They'd be better off dead, but we tolerate and take care of them nonetheless.  If only they would work and contribute something to the hive, imagine how much better off we'd be, as a whole.
    But they don't, because they have no reason to.  Why should they?  They're getting a free ride now, as it is.  Now if we, the hive community, did something to motivate these lazy individuals to get up, get out, and do something, we'd be doing ourselves and them a favor.  For instance, the queen could say, "If you don't contribute to the hive in some manner, be it food collection, nursing, Queen's Court, housecleaning, guarding, scouting, etc., then you cannot take from the hives resources and benefit from our collective effort, an effort that you have not participated in."  That only seems fair to me.  Work or die.  Because if you don't work, you will die... we won't carry you any more.  Do something.  Even if you can't do anything, do something.  There's always some little thing, or big thing, that needs to be done.  The world will never run out of jobs to do.  And we'd all be a lot happier if we knew that everybody else in the community was working just as hard as we are to better our lives and the lives of future generations.
   

   

    The next afternoon, the queen mated.  The rosy color in her cheeks when she returned home told me that her flight had been a success.  We gave her no time for a cigarette, however, as we quickly rushed her back into the hive to feed her and prepare her for her main duty, bearing children.
    Having successfully reared a new queen, the atmosphere in the hive became calm and content once more.  Queen Brandi soon began laying eggs, and the nursery was bustling with activity.  Crops had slowed, but were still good.  Besides, we still had fewer mouths to feed than normal, due to the recent swarm.
    As the leader of the queen's entourage, my duty was to make sure that her needs were met.  I also had to protect her if her safety was threatened.  Though I longed to see the outside world, I knew that I had a very important job to do right now.  Excitement was headed my way very soon.
    Late one afternoon, shortly after Brandi had taken over as queen, our hive was attacked.  Betty told me of the intruder while I was attending to the queen in the nursery.
    "Billie," she said frantically, "the guards up in Surplus Food say that we're under attack!  A Honey Thief just tore the roof off and removed the surplus food.  We've begun counterattacks, but he's still penetrating deeper into the hive.  Plus, there seems to be a fire somewhere, but no one's found the cause.  You must hide the queen."
    "Honey thieves?  What are they doing here so early?  It's only mid-summer.  Send all the guards to the top immediately.  I'll take the queen to the basement.  Good luck!"
    Honey thieves were a recurring problem, but they usually didn't show up until the fall, when there are no more crops coming in.  It's especially dangerous for us, because they usually take most of our food supplies and, since there's no more food coming in, we have to survive all winter on whatever is left.  Not only do they take our food, but they also destroy the interior construction of the house and often times leave things in total disarray.  It takes several days to recover from such an encounter.  This unexpected attack was most disturbing.
    I had little time to consider this, however, because as we were rushing to the basement, the nursery just above us flew off and we were exposed to the light and smoke.  I glanced back and saw the face of the honey thief peering in.
    "Quick, to that dark corner, Your Majesty!"  I needed to protect her at all costs.  We made for the corner as our home came apart around us, frame by frame.  This seemed to be a full-scale attack.  Honey thieves can be difficult to defend against, as their rough outer skin seems to be impervious to our stings.  Our only chance is to find a crack or a hole in the outer skin and get at the soft inner skin where our weapons can do much greater damage.  When we find that weakness, we attack it relentlessly.  I could only hope that our troops would soon find one, because we were running out of places to hide the queen.
    Just then, the lower hive body was lifted up and we were exposed on the floor.  "Everyone scatter!"  I yelled, but I was too late.  The honey thief had the queen in hand and was poking at her with something.  I rushed at his face in a fury, but I couldn't reach his soft skin to deliver my fatal blow.  I darted noisily around his head, hoping to distract him.  Abruptly, he dropped the queen back on the basement floor.  I flew back to her side.
    "Are you okay, Brandi?"
    "Yes, yes, I think so.  My back is just wet, but I don't hurt.  Am I bleeding?"
    "No.  I don't know what it is.  Your back is covered in some kind of sticky wet substance."  I tasted it.  "It's not food."
    In minutes, the hive was back together again.  That's one thing about honey thieves, they don't usually kill a hive.  It's like they know that if they kill us, there will be no more honey, so they try to keep us alive or do as little damage as possible, anyway.
    As we attempted to get the house back in order, I asked a passing guard bee what the preliminary numbers were on our losses.
    "Well," she said, "the food stores all seem to be intact.  Everything's still there, practically untouched.  We did lose four bees in the attack, however, and two more were killed when the house came apart."  She hesitated, "Betty was one of them."
    I stood in shock.  Not Betty!  She was just a house bee, not even involved in the hive defenses.  How could this happen to her?
    It does though.  That's the tragic fact in these type of attacks, the innocent lives that are lost.  I mourned for her.

    We set to the arduous task of getting the hive back in order.  Repairs had to be made, plus clean-up, plus care for the injured and disposal of the dead.  In a few days, things were back to normal again.
    The queen held a ceremony one night after work had resumed as usual.  The colony gathered round as she recognized those who were lost in the attack.  I listened with sorrow, but also pride... that our hive had withstood the attack and the queen was alive and well.
    Lost in this reverie, my ears perked up when the queen mentioned my name.
    "And I'd especially like to thank Billie, Head of the Queen's Court, for her heroic defense of her queen.  If not for her quick thinking and brave actions in a time of grave danger, I may not be here today.  Thank you, Billie."
    The crowd buzzed with applause as I sat blushing and embarrassed.  Brandi was not through yet, however.  She continued on:
    "In gratitude for your heroic service, I'd like to make you an offer.  Though you have been with me from Day One, and I can hardly imagine my Court without you in it, I know that it is your dream to be a field bee.  Therefore, if you wish it to be, it shall be."
    I nodded in acceptance, overjoyed, and the hive filled with applause once again.

This article is the Bee's Knees!

"The Bee’s Knees is a classic Prohibition cocktail made with Gin, honey, and lemon juice whose origins are myth and legend. The drink’s moniker may have originated from 'flapper chatter' of the 1920s and means the height of excellence. Bootleggers and their ilk may have created the drink to hide the raw juniper taste and smell of bathtub gin. The honey and lemon certainly do a swell job masquerading the liquor but do not file under light concoctions. Friends, make no mistake, the Bee’s Knees is very potent."

The Bee’s Knees
Written by Fredo Ceraso