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A very funny but true story............Linda Herron    
Stinging satirical humor...................Beverly Hopper
                  A real barn burner!................................Larry Beckwith                
Copyright 1991 by Lynn Mills
All rights reserved!
Bountiful High, class of 58, Utah

wwindmills@comcast.net


Bee Wars
Or
Wanna Bee Killer Bees
By Evan L. Mills, (Bountiful high class of 58)

We lived on 42 acres that bordered Main Street at the south end of Clearfield Utah.

It was a beautiful spring day. Slightly on the warm side but beautiful just the same. The late spring’s flowers caressed the summer breeze with their fragrance. The squirrels rustled through last years dried leaves as they searched for acorns that had been missed the previous autumn. The birds were singing as they brought food back to their nests and the bees were humming as they carried their sweet nectar from the summers first heavy honey flow to the huge and magnificent hollow cotton wood tree that grew in our back yard. There was no sign of problems or of the ominous events that were about to enter our lives. Certainly there was no thought of the war that would soon escalate and rage over a territorial dispute. It became known around our house as, “Bee Wars! or The Attack of the Honey Bees!” Ah but I am getting a little ahead of myself.
Nightmarish vison

  "Dave saw the bee coming and waived his torch at it. Then the unthinkable happened. Thermo-nuclear war!"
             There had never been any trouble between us and the bees. Our family used the territory around the old giant cottonwood tree that stood between our house and the barn. We also let the bees use it. The bees did sort of annex that territory which had been ours. We didn't mind as long as they were friendly. Occasionally when one of us walked in front of the hive opening, which was a hole about five feet up on the trunk of the tree, a dangerously overloaded bee would be returning to the hive at a negligent speed and crash into us. I believe that in every instance the irresponsibly over laden bees were able to recover before hitting the ground. I hardly think that such minor events would be provocation enough for them to start World War lll. It must have been some thing else but for the life of me I never figured out what it was. One day our eldest son was standing behind a branch, well out of the bees flight path and even out of sight, being concealed behind a leafy branch. All he wanted to do was observe. They must have taken him for a spy because without any warning they made an unprovoked attack on the innocent and un-armed civilian. They didn’t ask any questions or politely ask him to leave. There were no warning buzz by’s. Just STING! A strong protest was immediately lodged by Dave as he quickly departed the area.

              For several days Dave looked at the world through one eye until the swelling around the other eye went down enough to allow him to see stereo again. Not wishing to be intimidated by this type of gunboat diplomacy we continued to use the path that passed in front of the hive opening in our tall Cotton Wood tree. The bees were now claiming ridiculous territorial rights of ten feet around the hive entrance. But by inter-yard law we had the right of passage to within five feet of the front of the old cotton wood so we continued to exercise that right. There were a few skirmishes but our foreign policy seemed to be working.

             For a few days nothing serious happened. Then one day I was walking our large black dog. I was certain they wouldn’t attack with that kind of protection standing by. I was well outside the ten foot territory that the bees claimed and even outside their landing approach. The dog and I were just standing, very still watching the incoming and out going flights. They must have been trying to hide some covert activity. Suddenly Charley, our big shaggy black dog, snorted several times and then laid on the ground with his paws in the air and proceeded to rub the top of his head vigorously back and forth against the ground. I had a pretty good idea what had happened and on close examination of Charley’s head. There it was! A point zero, zero three millimeter, Italian honey bee military stinger! Definitely an offensive weapon!  Charley lodged a loud series of protests which the bees seemed to ignore. There were some tense moments as the two powers were drug to the brink of war! Cooler heads prevailed though and blood shed was averted for the time being. In my mind there was little doubt that the aggression would continue.

            Our foreign policy was being tested and it was critical that we did not surrender the area and the right of passage in front of the old Cotton Wood Tree. After all the bees already claimed miles of fields in every direction. Strategically, that pathway past the bee tree, was a vital link to our barn and the pastures beyond We were not about to let it fall into the hands of the enemy! Even if the path wasn’t such a strategically valuable piece of real estate we still couldn’t let them have it! Where would it end? If we let them have that piece of ground it wouldn’t be long before they would claim the territory around our house and that would be an intolerable position to be in. So the lines were drawn, the ultimatums given and the preparations for war began! The bees kept up their aggressive nature with threatening fly by’s, buzzings and stinger rattling.

            A last minute attempt at a peaceful solution was made when we tried to get a local bee keeper to intercede and take the bees to a new country but he declined, wishing to remain neutral. A few days later our oldest son, Dave was again attacked with out provocation! My Wife was in Montana visiting family so now there was no neutral party to parlay a peace agreement. Shortly there after we declared war! Dave, Dale, our next eldest son, Charley, our big black dog, and I were allies and had an un-written treaty that we would all fight together for the protection of each other. We were greatly out numbered but we felt our just cause and superior weapons would make the difference. The first thing we tried was a blockade. The four of us surrounded the tree. Charley jumped up and down barking out orders While Dave, Dale and I waived flaming kerosene soaked torches at anything airborne and singed the wings off all incoming and outgoing flights. There were probably a few innocent flying critters that bit the dust that day but this was war! It was gruesome! The bees fought valiantly and we had underestimated their resolve. For a while it appeared that we were winning but then one of their long range Bee one bombers found its mark on the very spot Dave had been stung before. The wound was really ugly this time and we were forced to retreat with our casualty.

            Later we counter attacked with plaster and torches. Dale and I kept Dave covered while he plastered the entrance shut. Soon there were tens of thousands of bees trying to get in and no doubt just as many trying to get out. To all appearances we had won the war! That night we celebrated and basked in our victory. We recounted exciting battles, told stories of brave acts and related heroic deeds. The victory was short lived however. The next morning spies, Beverly and Linda our daughters, informed us that some time during the night the bees had secretly dug a new tunnel at the base of the tree and even as we spoke they were re-supplying their base. The flame throwers had failed and soon the war escalated to a new low. Chemical warfare. We used chemical agents that were designed to kill flying insects. Pardon the use of the term, insects, but feelings were strong at this point and the use of unflattering terms was common. The death rate was high from the chemical engagement but by the next day the enemy appeared to be as strong as ever. It soon became apparent that the offensive was not going well for the allies. We had to do something fast or all would be lost! We would be forever dominated by the bees!

           We didn’t want to go nuclear but there was little else we could do at this point. We still hoped to avoid an all out nuclear strike but hope was fading fast. Dave kept the bees busy at the upper main entrance which the bees had reopened, while Dale and I planted the charges in the ground level tunnel. We loaded the tunnel full of Calcium Hydride which when wet produces Hydrogen and Oxygen in perfect ratios to create a highly explosive atmosphere! This was our hydrogen bomb! We only intended to use it as a last resort. Soon the charges were set and the garden hose was put into the tunnel and sealed with rags. A raised hand was the signal and the water was turned on. Water could be heard streaming into the base of the tree. Then the hydrogen gas began hissing from every crack and hole in the tree. Large volumes of hydrogen gas began venting from the top entrance. We only meant to suffocate the bees. There was no plan to detonate the bomb at this stage.

           Whether the bee was only trying to escape the gas or was making a suicide run at Dave will never be known for sure. Dave saw the bee coming and waived his torch at it. Then the unthinkable happened. Thermo-nuclear war! There was a brilliant flash and a huge growing ball of fire turning itself inside out like an angry octopus followed by a thunderous explosion! Thousands of de-winged bees, honey and honey comb shot from the hive opening right at Dave as though they had been blasted from a shot gun. Some of the shrapnel glanced off the top of Dave's head. Shortly there after there was a second explosion and I became a casualty of the war. Another ball of fire spewed out of the ground level tunnel and neatly took all the hair off my right arm. Bees were everywhere. They carpeted the ground which appeared to be moving because of the tens of thousands of crawling de-winged bees. The air was filled with swarms of bees unable to get back into their smoke filled hive.

          Dale was the first to notice some thing coming from the top entrance and asked. “Is that steam or... smoke!” “It is smoke!” we yelled in unison! It was smoke and it was increasing in volume by the minute! Soon large clouds of smoke billowed from the top entrance and a terrible sizzling sound could be heard coming from deep within the tree. Dead rotten wood and wax honey comb burned furiously inside the old tree. We feverishly put the garden hose into the top entrance and tried to douse the fire but we couldn’t reach the caverns that were intensely burning and the fires raged unabated deep inside the huge Cotton Wood tree. Now the war was escalating! It was threatening to involve the fire department and probably the police! For a moment I had a nightmarish vision of dozens of firemen and police along with crowds of spectators being attacked by angry war crazed bees while our beautiful, tall Cotton Wood tree crashed down in flames across the barn! Luckily there was a store close by that carried dry ice. Soon we had stuffed five pounds of dry ice into the tree. We kept it sealed for a couple of days and on the third day we pronounce the fire out. At the end of the conflict the casualties were approximately 200,000 bees, a twice stung faithful black shaggy dog, a badly abused and scorched Cotton Wood tree, Dave with one functional eye, honey and honey comb in his hair and seven stings, me with a hairless right arm and Dale without a scratch.
   We can now claim victory and the right of passage but even so I feel a twinge of guilt when I freely tread past the bee tree. As I exercise that freedom I weigh the cost. I remember how many bees gave their lives trying to preserve their home. I pause at the tree with each trip to the barn and thousands of tiny ghosts haunt my conscience.

update
November 2006
           The house the barn and the bee tree are now all gone. Only the memories persist in our minds of the wonderful times we had living on those 42 acres. The memories of snow covered trees. Of warm summer days. Of crickets and frogs serenading the night. The family weinner roasts around the fire pit and the war! The pastures and fields are now parking lots and stores. People exit their parked cars and walk over our memories without a clue as to the drama and romance that lay beneath the black top. Some people call it progress but I just call it development and leave it up to you to decide if it is progress or not.....

Lynn Mills, Bountiful High, Bountiful, Utah class of 58.
 
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Some of my other pages
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