Mind Your Own Bees Wax (10)

It's a good thing it is a requirement for me to post this, otherwise, only me and my family would be the ones reading it. I'm usually pretty private with my work and don't let hardly anyone see what I have written. So you can consider yourself lucky or unlucky to be reading this today. I admit, I thoroughly enjoyed writing this experience and remembering the emotions of this day. I hope you enjoy reading about this unfortunate event.
Mind your own Beeswax

Even before the grogginess of sleep had left my eyes, I could feel something in the air, something that conjured up a feeling of uneasiness.

“Drrrring, drrrring!” went the intercom.

“Courtney, time to get up,” came the cheerful voice of my father from upstairs.

I rolled my eyes and tried to ignore the guilty feeling I had as I stayed in my warm, soft covers instead of shivering through the crisp cool morning. I eventually flopped one leg over the other and forced myself away from the static of the blankets that tried to hold me back. I slowly and mechanically pulled on my baggy basketball shorts and wormed my way into an old soccer shirt. I squinted as the door squeaked open and revealed yet another fresh new day. My breath appeared in little puffs of smoke in front of my face. The morning dew stuck to the slivers of grass and the few rays of sunlight bounced off of the extended, moist mass of green. It was still quite chilly, especially for the morning, but that didn’t stop the early risers, my dad being one of them. The air was sprinkled with tweets and chirps and a welcome silence and then…. the sound I dreaded. They were up earlier than usual today. A light buzz filled the air and once again, my worst enemy was set free with the rising of the sun.

“Great!” I thought to myself. “As long as they mind their own bees wax, I’ll mind mine.”

A voice interrupted my slow thoughts with a jubilant, “Gooood morning Court! Hey, how about you go grab a shovel and help me in the back here.”

He said it so nonchalant, so smooth, so easily. He didn’t seem to notice my eyes bulging out of their sockets and my frozen stare of terror.

“Dad,” I gasped desperately. “I can’t go back there.”

“What’s wrong Court? It’s really not going to take that long to take out the weeds in the back.”

“No, no Dad, you don’t quite understand!” I exclaimed. “Dad, the bees. There’s no way you’re making me go back there. I’m not about to voluntarily put myself in front of their beehive and get stung!”

“Court, you are seriously overreacting here,” my dad said in an impatient sort of voice. Listen, if you don’t bother the bees, they won’t bother you. We are going to be behind them the whole time.”

“Well Dad, remember how yesterday you went and checked the bees? Remember how the bees don’t react well to your visits? They are going to be on edge at least for the next four days. And I don’t want to have anything to do with them,” I argued.

“Court. Go grab a shovel. I will see you in five minutes behind the beehives,” he answered shortly.

He turned and walked in the direction of the furthest west corner of our yard. Defeat was written all over my face and I reluctantly turned on my heel and trudged over to the garage. I grabbed my favorite red handled shovel and mentally began preparing myself for the worst. I felt as if I had signed my life away and I was walking towards my death. The two white stacks of painted boxes loomed in the near distance. There sat the home to hundreds and thousands of little tormentors. I could see them flying jubilantly around, ecstatic about the easy target that was approaching. I could sense them plotting against me, the whole lot of them. The distance between me and the flying creatures was drastically decreasing.
I slowly made my way over, purposely making an extra loop around the orchard to extend my route. The sound of the buzzing became apparent and I avoided eye contact with the horrors. I slowly bent down and began plucking the large pesky weeds that had seized control over the small patch of ground. I was minding my own bees wax when suddenly, I heard the dreaded sound approaching. Closer and closer and still closer it came until it was circling around me, just like a lion before it pounces on its prey. I froze in the squatting position waiting and praying for the little dime size tyrant to have mercy on me. Ignoring my pleadings, it came closer. I then broke all rules and began swatting at the bee. The yellow and black stripes beamed with irritation and I could see the bee looking for the most obvious piece of skin to penetrate. I was becoming frantic, even a little hysteric. I hadn’t been stung by a bee for years and I sure wasn’t willing to change that statistic! 
I started walking away from the leaning hives and began swatting, missing the target every time by inches. If nothing else, I made a quick enemy. I continued walking away from the area and still, the bee persisted. By this time, I encouraged and coaxed my legs into a light jog. Still it came. I used the sprinting skills I had inherited from my dad to propel me down the street. This just encouraged the little pest and it increased its speed and intensity. It was going for the kill! 
Against my will, I let out a high-pitched shrilling scream that bounced off the encompassing mountains and resonated in the valley. The buzzing only intensified, a continual reminder of my predicament. I dared to glance left to see the author of the horrid noise and to my own horror, realized the bee was to be my constant companion. The strands of my let down hair created a trap that ensnared the bee, infuriating not only the bee, but me as well.  
My legs continued to progress forward, my scream increased in pitch, and to add to the horrid combination, I desperately started thrashing and jerking my head violently up and down, back and forth. I turned from a victim to a laughing stock within just seconds. My dad followed the trail of screams and caught up to me. I parted the strands of hair in the front and gave a little sigh of relief to see someone come to my rescue. I was puzzled as I saw my dad’s shoulders slump and him bend over, not even trying to suppress his laughing.

“Dad!!” I pleaded. “Dad, I need help!!”

He made his way over, and with a huge grin, he started parting my strands of hair, making grabbing motions at the bee, trying to release it from the claws of my ratty locks. I sunk lower and lower to the ground, succumbing to the flying tormentor, only hearing the buzz of its angry wings grow. And then it was gone. The noise, the fear, my dad’s rough hands on my head. I peeked one eye open and dared to see my fate.

            “Court!” gasped my father in between breaths. “Man, I have never seen something like that happen before!”

His words were cut off as a surge of uncontrollable laughing seized his entire body. Tears streamed down his face as red hot heat filled mine. My eyes burned with tears and frustration.

            “Dad!” I yelled. “This is all your fault! I told you I didn’t want to work by the bees and look what happened! I am never going over there again!”

And with that, I raged off into the house, taking my anger out on my battered bedroom door.

I marinated in my anger for days and stewed over the situation. Even though my dad had apologized for his irrationality, I was not ready to just let the scarring go. I hated the bees and would never like them. My dad appeared in my room a week after the fiasco. He slipped in and sat gently on the edge of my bed, where I was sprawled.

            “Court,” he said. “I need your help. One of our hives just swarmed and I need to go and capture the bees. I need someone to go with me.”

My heart rate doubled in seconds and my pupils must have communicated my emotion because my dad rushed on to say, “Now, I know you aren’t very keen on the bees right now, but we are both going get dressed in our bee suits and I am going to teach you about the bees. You don’t have to just be afraid of them. I will explain to you what the bees do and how they work the way they do. So what do you say?”

            “Dad, I’m too scared to go. Do I really have to?”

            “I just wanted to bring my favorite helper along. I think it will be good for you Court. I don’t want you to be contained by fear. I want to help you overcome your fears,” replied my dad in a sincere, loving tone.

My face muscles began to relax as I considered the offer set before me. I knew I didn’t want to hide behind my fear of bees forever. This was my chance. My eyes slowly met his.

            “Ok, I’ll go.” I timidly replied.

            “Sounds good,” he grinned as he stood to leave. “I will meet you in the garage in a few minutes.” I reached for my long pants and slipped them on, ready to protect myself at all costs, but now feeling prepared to ace my worst enemy. I stepped through my bedroom door, and in an oddly excited and confident manner, shut the door on one of my fears.