Bee Bop

A man wanders into a country garden and listens as its owner entertains her bee hives with Harry James' 1941 swing time variation of "Flight of the Bumblebee."

BEE BOP

B y   W e b b   J o h n s o n

I wanted to postpone telling Molly some bad news so I left the other commuters on the freeway and took the long route home.

Dad used to take us out there to buy eggs and honey when I was a boy, but I had forgotten how narrow and winding it is.  After negotiating a couple of sharp turns, I remembered that a high school classmate was killed during a wild car race on the old road.

Most of the ranch houses are deserted now with third generation heirs selling out to real estate developers, but the fields and hills were lush with new grain and the fruit trees were in blossom despite their obvious neglect.  As I breathed in the odors of the Laurel and Live Oaks that grow along the creekside road, memories rose like fine pollen. 

“Our song” came to mind; Knock on Wood by Eddie Floyd.

 “It’s like thunder and lightnin'.  Ooooh yeah, the way you love me, it’s fright’nin.” 

We were doing the bop and it was me in another universe with Mollystuff forming a fine hot smoke in my bloodstream.  We still have the trophy they gave us that night, but it had been a long time since we danced together.

 I had to tell her I didn’t get the new job because I’d bragged about being on the short list.  I thought the prospect of more money would give us something to look forward to, but I had only set her up for another disappointment.

A hairpin curve snapped me back to my driving.  I hit the brakes too late and careened over an embankment, plunging downward through bushes and vines. The air bag erupted in my face like a boxing glove when the car finally crunched nose-first into the gravelly creek bottom. 

It was dusty.  Breathing was difficult, and I couldn't see.  I remember turning the ignition key, stupidly hoping the car would start.  Some time passed.  Then, I remember birds chirping.  I heard my jacket rip as I crawled through the driver's window and scrambled up the loose soil and wet leaves of the creek bank.  When I reached the road, I walked aimlessly.

I must have walked more than a mile but I have no recollection of anything until I saw a wooden bridge. 

What were my choices?  Should I walk across the bridge toward a house in the distance, or stay on the road hoping for a friendly vehicle?  

I crossed the bridge.  Rusty barbed wire fences ran along both sides of a long driveway on the far side.  Beyond the fences, wheat fields stretched toward distant hills.  A lone Valley Oak stood in the center of this vast expanse, with its drooping limbs silhouetted in descending sunlight.

The tranquil scenery didn't improve the reality.  I had just ruined a good suit and shoes, not to mention wrecking the family car.  It would soon be dark and it was too far to walk home.  If no one lived at the ranch house, I'd be walking back or sleeping on the ground.

As I got closer, I saw expertly pruned almond trees and an impressive country garden, but there was no sign of animate life except for honeybees buzzing among the white and pink almond blossoms.

Then, two barking German Sheppard’s tore around the side of the house.  They stopped about ten feet away displaying their purple gums and yellow fangs.  I didn’t dare move.

Finally, I heard a human voice. 

"Here, Earl.  Here Earl.” 

Both dogs raised their ears and looked toward the sound before trotting toward the back yard.  I followed them.

 Behind the house, I saw a woman dressed in work clothes standing in the middle of an exquisite vegetable garden.  When she saw me, she called out.

  "Hello.  I hope the dogs didn't scare you."

"They did a little at first,” I said, “but it's OK.  I like dogs.  Which one's Earl?”

"They're both named Earl.  When I call one they both come, so why have two names?”  

She laughed.  Then I laughed.  The dogs stood up and leaned their big paws on her, maybe wishing they could laugh too.  She patted their heads and scratched them behind their ears.

Noticing my clothes, she asked if there had been an accident.  I told her my car was at the bottom of the creek, and asked to use the phone.

"Thank God, you’re alive,” she said, "But say, I'm Adele Lovett."

 When I heard her name, I realized she was likely the mother of Billy Lovett, the boy who was killed car racing twenty years earlier.  I hoped she didn't notice my reaction.

"My name's Bob Abernathy,"

"You're not Bud Abernathy's son, are you?"

"I sure am.  How do you know him?"

"Well, I haven't seen Bud for years, but there is a resemblance.  He and my husband were friends in school.  He used to bring you and your sister out here to buy eggs and honey. Ours were just little guys then, too.  We lost touch after all you kids started at different schools.”

“I remember goats and chickens.  Am I right?”

"You have quite a memory, Bob.  I had to give up the chickens and the animals after my husband died, but I still have the dogs.  You probably played with their ancestors.  You played with my son, Billy, too.  Do you remember him?”

"Yes, I remember him, but not from then.”

She lowered her blue eyes momentarily, and removed her garden gloves.

“Billy was a lovable boy.  He had lots of friends,” she said.

“But the phone's in the kitchen.  Just go in the back door and then straight ahead.  After you make your calls, I'd like you to give me a hand with something, if you feel up to it.”

“I feel OK.  I know nothing's broken because I walked some long ways to get here.  The only pain is from the left jab I took from the air bag.”

Once inside the house I found the telephone and called my insurance agent and the towing company.  I arranged to ride home with the tow truck operator who said he would be at the crash-site in two hours.  I didn’t call Molly.

Back outside, I found Adele and told her I was “all hers” for an hour and a half. 

"Perfect,” she said, “I have a two-man job.”

As we walked along a garden pathway, she snipped and pruned and looked askance at items that would need further attention in the near future.

We entered the cool, dusty barn through double doors.  I sniffed a long breath of the odor of cut hay as we walked another twenty feet to a side room that contained electrical equipment.  A wooden box with a speaker-horn mounted on top had fading white lettering on its side that read, ALTEC Lansing the Voice of Theaters.  Sitting at the side of the speaker horn box there was a new compact disc player and several hundred feet of electrical extension cord. 

"Where did you get this strange looking sound system?" I asked.

"Do you remember the El Rey movie theater?"

"I sure do," I said. "I spent most of my boyhood Saturdays there. My first real kiss happened in those dark loges.”

“Well, this is the speaker they put in when they converted to sound way back in the thirties.  Why my husband wanted it, I'll never know, but it’s been right here since they tore down the theater.”

"So, what are you going to do with it?"

"I have a pleasing surprise for the workers.  You're welcome to join us, if you have time.  I guarantee it'll beat standing out on the road with nobody around."

"Yeah, sure.  You have help here?  I wondered how you kept the place looking so good."

"Let's work while we talk,” she said, “Grab those extension cords.  Plug into that socket and then tie it off so it won't pull out when we walk into the field."

I followed her instructions.  "OK, all set."

"All right, let's see if we can get the big speaker into the carryall.  The rest of the equipment will fit in the wheelbarrow, but we must be careful not to disconnect the wiring.  Ronny Riley spent a whole Sunday afternoon hooking up the compact disc player, for me.   Do you know Ronny?  He's about your age and he went to Valley High."

"Yeah, I still see him around.”  I couldn't have told her when.

By working together we moved the equipment out of the barn and walked into the wheat field.  The deepening blue sky and rosy-orange edges on the clouds made me conscious of the time. 

"Where are the workers?" I asked.

"The 'workers' I'm talking about are my honeybees.”

I responded as nonchalantly as possible to this peculiar remark: 

"Music for bees?  What are you going to play for them?"

"Good question!" she said, “I decided they couldn't help liking the Flight of the Bumblebee by Rimski-Korsokov.  When I went to the music store to buy the disc, the man reminded me that the Harry James Band had a swing version they recorded in 1941.  Wait 'til you hear it.  It's fabulous.  The bees will love it.”

“I don't think bees can really hear, can they?"  I said.

 Adele made it clear by her silence that she didn't want to argue, and I'm going along with her because . . . what choice did I have? 

When we got to our destination, I saw thousands of bees drowsily buzzing around the hives - and smelled the air, now saturated with the sweet aroma of raw honey.  Beyond the hives, across an open patch of meadow grass, small birds flitted among the springy branches of willow trees that lined the winding creek. 

"This will be fine," said Adele.

We checked for electrical power by plugging-in the compact disc player and pressing the "on" button.  The panel lights lit up showing that it was ready.

Then Adele addressed the crowd.  "You bees!  I know you are busy so I won't take a lot of your time.”

To be honest, I was glad no one else was around.

She continued, "I could go on all afternoon telling you how important your work is and how grateful I am to be working with you, but instead of just droning on, I'd like you to take a break and enjoy some music with me.  I selected this piece because if I were a bee I’m sure it would make me want to get up and fly, which must be like wanting to get up and dance is to people.  It is a swing-time variation on The Flight of The Bumblebee.   Here it is."

We walked about twenty feet, set up the lawn chairs, then sat down facing the dinosaur speaker.  Adele removed a remote controller from her pocket, pointed it at the compact disc player and pressed a button marked PLAY.

Instantly a portentous seven note chanting of symphonic trombones energized the atmosphere.  Then an elation of trumpet notes made my skin feel like it was being sprinkled with sand. Honeybees blanketed the hives, the fence posts, the barbed wire and the branches of the trees �" all alighted �" facing the speaker.  Then, simultaneously, as though controlled by a single mind, they left their perches, massed into a swirling swarm and rose above the meadow.  This was astonishing and amazing and terrifying and beautiful �" a glittering-gold tornado in the rosy sky.  This shimmering, sparkling, dancing, vision and the heavenly trumpet soaring and weaving through the driving rhythms of the blasting big band was rapturous.

A sublime, long, lofty trumpet note ended the wheat field concert, and I was momentarily suspended within the empty hush that always follows bright sound.  The still air had gone chilly and the cloudy sky was ablaze in bronzy hues. Adele stood facing the bees now in placid flight around the hive portals.

“That was The Flight of the Bumblebee,” she said.  “I'm glad you liked it.  I'll see you all at work tomorrow.  Good night.  Sweet dreams." 

Then she said to me, "They loved it”. 

"They did.  They loved it,” I said, “And so did I.  I loved it, too.  If I were a bee I would have flown.”

~

The tow truck driver pulled a lever on a cable and my crumpled car scraped its way up the creek bank.  In the cramped front seat of his cab he said, “Man, you're lucky.  Do you want to stop at the emergency room and get checked out?"

“No, thanks,” I said, looking out into the sweetness of night that spread around us.  I want to get home.  My wife must be worried . . . and it's the damndest thing; I feel like dancing.”         

The End

 

Author's Note

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