Bee Breeze
Me: “Wow. Did you get a full size Twix bar?”
Will: “No. Just this ‘Tee Dubbayou Eye Ex’.
A man peers up and eases off the accelerator in his oversized pickup, rolling to a stop on the grass in front of our house. He sticks his neck out the open window, looks at me and points toward one of our leafless box alders. “Hey! I’m Woody. Can I chop yer bee’s nest down? I love bee’s nests!” His diesel engine rumbles and I say “Sure”. He cuts the engine and two women quickly hop out of the passenger side. Woody waves me over and I offer some help. Closer now, I see that his mouth isn’t totally visible on account of his beard but his eyes betray a smile. Woody loves bees nests. His mom starts to clear room in the back of his truck-bed to stand up his 10 foot ladder. Woody assembles a long orange fiberglass extender with a rope pull snipper. Woody’s a big man and slowly climbs toward the top step that’s actually not a step. The wind whips and he expertly leans into it while telling his mom to stop offering suggestions. Mercifully, all suggestions cease as he works to get the snipper angle just right on the thin branch. The dormant nest sways and time slows. We’re all in the back of the truck bed. A wind gust moves him again and we hug the aluminum ladder, his legs and boots at the same time as he strains to get enough height. In the effort, someone kicks over a garbage bag of apples destined for his tree-stand. Motor oil spills. Woody doesn’t care, his eyes are locked on the prize. He pulls the rope-actuated lever and the snip snips. The nest floats down to earth. Woody’s mom moves to catch it like a football but it drifts just out of her reach and lands softly on a leaf pile. She picks it up by the stick and admires its stone gray color and zig-zag horizontal striations. Woody disassembles the snipper pole and folds the ladder as his mom instructs Ella and Mae how she plans to polyurethane the outside to preserve it. This one will join the other six in their kitchen. She hands the nest to Woody ceremoniously. Woody loves bees nests.
Ten minutes earlier.
A cacophony of starlings crash through a November heat wave, drawing our eyes skyward. Up from our front yard raking. Up to the daytime moon, up to the falling leaves, up to the giant swaying bees nest clinging to a thin branch. The nest is dormant and so far out of reach. It's a relic of its menacing July form, when yellowjackets swarmed daily. Away from the mower, blower and dust, it sways. It’s Sunday and the pace is slow as I work with the girls. Will, disgruntled from not being able to ride the lawnmower, has put himself down for a midday sad-nap. Inside, the sign on his door reads:
stay
out
nap
As the leathery oak leaves rustle under our toes, the kitchen is thirty yards away from us but the sharp, spicy smell of Jollaf rice drifts on the gusting northerly wind. We’re outside and I’m reminded of the fun we’ve had so far this season. Clearing trails and helping build bridges at Brookhaven, exploring so many unfamiliar paths, backwaters and sandpits of Washington County, the seasonal spooky KP night rides and watching Mae navigate the smooth berms of Rush Pond on her strider bike. We’ve pushed the limits of what we do and reaped a strange kind of fun as our reward. Like the yellow leaves reflected on my head unit screen, there’s always a reminder to look up, to stay positive. As I rake, I think about yesterday on the bike when Adam asked, “Do you guys want to check this old farm path out?” None of us had ridden it before. The road twists past a barn and into a field. It's sandy, about a mile long, pocked with rusting cars along its banks and unrideable at times. We look up at the gravel entrance and nod in approval or acceptance. Soon we’re buzzing through the countryside again, looking for more unnamed roads. Looking for adventures hidden like hives. Annie Dillard said ‘how we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.’ and I’m inclined to agree with her. The wind swirls the leaves at our feet like a small tornado and a distant, rumbling diesel engine brings me back.
木漏れ日,
Andy
