When I was about four years old, I was stung by a wasp. We'd gone to clean our church and it must have been in the plan that I wouldn't be much help because I was carrying a pillow. I remember that specifically because that's how I got stung. We were just leaving and I tucked the pillow under my arm...and trapped a wasp between the pillow and my side. The result was inevitable.
I've never been stung by a bee. And, truth be told, I don't think I've ever been frightened by bees. I probably should be--my mother is extremely allergic to them. But they don't worry me.
A number of factors play into this, not least of which was a book called Ned Kelly and the City of Bees which I read in my formative years. Mostly, though, it traces back to a very vivid memory. I was walking home from a friend's house the next parking lot over and a bee landed on my arm. Instead of screaming, flailing, all the usual reactions, I remember stopping in my tracks and just staring at it.
It meandered up and down my arm, tiny legs tickling my skin. I could see the fuzziness of each stripe, every individual pane in its wings. I wondered what it found so interesting about my skin and if it had mistaken me for a tree or a flower and was now confused. After a minute of two, since it showed no signs of going anywhere, I started heading for home again, holding my hand carefully out in front of me so I could keep an eye on it. It crawled down to my hand and rode all the way to my front door and then buzzed off on its business again.
It was utterly charming. I remember wondering if I were some sort of special bee person, like I might be able to talk to them or figure out what their dances meant when no one else could because I could just intuitively understand them. Hey, I was imaginative and interested in science.
Still am.
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