of my brain was running full-tilt and
trying to deflect what felt like a million
bees angrily crawling through my hair
and trying to sting me, and the other
half was watching a blond lunatic running down the street flailing herself
about the head with a limp and broken
bunch of ditch-grown wildflowers. Surprisingly it turns out that wildflowers
are not bee-repellent. According to my
husband, this was like trying to fend off
an angry dog with a raw steak.
When the buzzing trailed off and all
of the remaining bee bits were shaken
and cursed out of the now ravaged hair,
I released the last bee shirt-hostage
(that had mercifully not stung me) and
took stock. Over a dozen bees lost their
lives in the attack and amazingly all of
them stung me on the scalp. Not even
one visible wound to garner sympathy with, and the stings
hurt—a lot, in fact. My heart was racing and I was flushed
and my head was on fire. With as much cool as I could muster I made the executive decision that I had had enough fresh
air for one day, squared my shoulders, and started to walk
back to the hotel.
I tried to regain my dignity a little bit—which was tricky
since I was clutching my head and swearing like a sail-
or. The beekeeper chose this moment to
drive by in his red pickup with the re-
mainder of his bees. He slowed down and
drawled, “Did they get ya?” I answered
yes but not to worry—it was likely only
10 or 20 stings. He tried to cheer me with
the proclamation that this would increase
my immunity to future stings, and the
wisdom that, “Bees do love blondes.” As
I was not feeling the love, a cocked eye-
brow was all I could manage as he fol-
lowed with, “Ya cain’t blame ’em for
that...” and took a drag on his cigarette
and drove off.
I decided I had earned a second beer
and—unfair as it may be—the right to not
like this city at all. To this day when I see
an overnight here on my schedule, I break
my own rule and groan, but console myself that tomorrow’s fascinating places
are just a layover away. ✈
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Devan A. Norris, WAI 13890, is an avid observer of people, and
has had many wonderful opportunities to both watch and interact with them in her current roles: as a captain on the EMB145,
and as an apprentice air show air boss. She and her husband
live in a fly-in community in Florida, where they are proud airplane parents of an L8 named Sylvia.
Just when
he suggested that,
perhaps I should
move a bit farther
away, the bees got
organized and
I took off down the
street with them
swarming around
my head.
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