Hum and Drone
BY Joanne Huffa
Photography by Roel Dillen
I learned to do the bee dance when I was very young.
The hive was at the end of the garden, away from the swing set and slide my dad spent two weekends building. There was a line of trees and a cluster of bushes delineating property lines; the hive was in one of the trees, though it’s been so long I can’t tell you what sort of tree it was. It wasn’t a palm or a monkey puzzle though.
I didn’t want the bees’ nectar. I didn’t run and squeal and flap my arms. To sit among them as they went about their collection and feeding was enough. I had no thoughts of becoming queen.
Other kids would come around, hoping to play with me and the bees. These cousins, siblings, and neighbours were welcome, of course, in my backyard, but soon they would go running indoors looking for a grown-up to extract the stinger that punctured their skin. If they came too close, that is. Watching from a distance didn’t end up in tears and swelling limbs. Well, only sometimes.
I wasn’t a big child. My hair was pulled into two curly pigtails on the sides of my head, and my big, blue, watchful eyes saw the bees grow defensive as the girl from two doors down drew near. I heard the buzzing, no longer the peaceful hum of the workers taking nourishment from the flowerbed my mother planted diligently each year. The girl, whose name was probably Melinda, but to my ears sounded like Berlinda, wasn’t a mean girl. She was a year older than I was and we played dolls on a blanket behind my house, or sometimes hers. I didn’t talk much and neither did she. But sometimes Berlinda wanted to sit among the bees, too.
I was cross-legged as they milled about, sometimes landing on my round, pale arms. Once in a while, I’d lift my hand to stroke the soft fuzz. As I did, I heard Berlinda whimper behind me, nervous that I was asking for a jab.
“Shhhhh,” I said. “You mustn’t disturb them.”
“But you’ll get stung,” she pleaded, though we both knew I wouldn’t.
My mom came to the back door. “Melinda, you should really come away from there,” she said gently, knowing that the older girl was too nervous for the bees to ignore.
“But why does she get to play with them?” her pouty lips asked.
“That’s between April and the bees, love,” my mom whispered as she took Berlinda inside for cookies and juice.
After a few minutes, I stood up to join them, the smell of chocolate and oatmeal luring me into the kitchen. I said goodbye and silently thanked the bees for their kindness.
That night in the living room, I drew pictures and watched TV. Behind me, my parents talked about the day’s events. I paid little attention to them, filling sheet after sheet with horses and pretty girls with long hair and flouncy skirts. Sometimes I would try to make my pencil crayons form a boy, but they always looked too feminine, so I would give them more hair and long eyelashes and suddenly they too were pretty girls.
At the end of that summer I started Grade 5 and learned that I wasn’t supposed to play with dolls anymore. At least, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone that I did. Girls started talking about training bras and how, pretty soon, we’d be getting our periods. I read Flowers in the Attic and my head grew fuzzy and dizzy. At night my dreams were full of guys from faraway places coming to rescue me from the John Cougar-loving boys of my small town. Then a beautiful chestnut mare would show up out of nowhere and take me further than even my dream boy could imagine.
