Bumbling with the Bees

      The warm mid-day breeze moved the curtains above the kitchen sink. Spring was finally here. Mom opened the front door to create a draw through the house. The sweet fragrances of a budding springtime mingled with the aromas of her baking.

      Returning to the kitchen, Mom turned toward the oven. Wrapping her hands with the edge of her apron, she gripped the handle, opened the door a smidgen, and bent over to peek. Daylight revealed the fresh loaf of bread inside. It still needed that golden glow on the crust.  Closing the door, she thought “Just a few more minutes and I can call the boys in for lunch.”

      But her thoughts were interrupted. Sounds of distant screams reverberated off the walls, lots of them. The commotion seemed to be coming from the front of the house and getting louder. It was too manic for playfulness. Hurrying to the door to investigate, she peered through the screen.

      The High School baseball field was in clear view just a hundred yards or so from the porch. Earlier, this Saturday morning, some of the neighbor boys had arrived in hopes of burning off some pent-up baseball fever with her oldest son, Ron. She’d sent them out to play.

      As she scanned the horizon, she observed a half dozen boys running in all direction. Two were hers. Fourteen-year-old Ron was scurrying toward the ball field as the neighbor boys scattered across the cityscape. Her youngest, Mike, was running straight for the house waving his arms frantically above his head. Growing more concerned, she wondered, “What are they doing?”

      Her memory raced back to the boys gathering equipment. Being short several players for a true game, they’d settled for fielding practice. Grabbing a couple “Louisville Slugger” bats, some gloves and a ball, they set off to the ball field to “hit a few.”

      Watching as they ambled into the distance, lighthearted chatter filled the air. Smiling, she returned to the kitchen to prepare for a hungry mob, later. All seemed normal.

      And all was normal . . . for a while. As they walked across the school lawn, positions were assigned. Ron could hit about anything that crossed the plate. Next-door-neighbor Andy threw a mean curve ball. His younger brother Danny could play rover, being quick and agile anywhere on the field. Dwight volunteered to be catcher. The two youngest, little Sam and ten-year-old Mike (Ron’s brother) would be outfielders. Entering through the make-shift dugout, everyone took their places.

      Andy warmed his arm up as Ron tested the bats. Then, standing in the batter’s box, he walloped a good set of Andy’s sizzling pitches. Dwight retrieved the occasional fouls and stray throws while Danny, Mike and Sam fielded flies.

      Finally, Andy decided to try his hottest curve ball. As the breeze fluffed his blonde hair, he took his position, straightened his stance, signaled Dwight, wound up for the throw, and then fired the spherical missile at the batter. Calculating the speed, Ron tightened his grip on the stick. His senses shouted “NOW, HIT IT!”

      Mind and muscles prompted reflexes. Taking a mighty swing, wood and leather collided with a “Smack” sending the ball soaring . . . but only to foul out over the left field backstop. All eyes were fixed on the ball as it disappeared into the adjoining neighbor’s backyard.

      Ron called to the fielders, “I’ll go get it. Just stay put.” He made his way out through the dugout to the neighbor’s picket fence. Entering a side gate, he walked to where the ball had vanished behind an old tool shed. They searched around trees, through flowerbeds and under various obstacles, yet the lone ball was nowhere in sight. Finally, the other boys dropped their gloves and joined him.

      Out of courtesy Danny knocked on the front door of the house, but apparently no one was home. Returning to the rest of the search squad, he began wandering through the cluttered yard.  Dodging empty flower pots and lawn furniture, he began kicking through the tall grass in hopes of striking the lost ball.

      Suddenly, Ron shouted, “Hey, I found it.” Relieved, the boys ran to him at the door of the old shed.

      Seeing Ron’s empty hands, Andy scowled.  “So, where is it?”

      “It must have bounced off something and flew in here,” he replied. Pointing toward the floor just a few feet inside, he continued, “It’s over there on that pile of old rags.”  With one foot inside, he leaned forward and grabbed the ball. Stepping out again, he began inspecting it for damage.

      “Well, come on, let’s play ball,” called Danny.
 
      Studying the darkened interior of the shed, Ron continued, “I wonder what’s under all those rags.” The noonday sun seemed to spotlight the pile, while the remaining contents sat shrouded in the darkness.

      “Oh, who cares? Come on. Let’s go,” said Andy.

      But no one budged. With curiosities peaked, they gathered around the darkened opening to see the pile and any other potential mysteries. Then Ron erupted, “Look! That rag moved . . . and I hear something.” The boys were all eyes and ears. Slowly, Ron reached for the top bundle.

      Uneasy shivers crawled up Danny’s back. With hair raising on his neck he called, “Hey, let’s get out of here!”

      Ron hesitated. Then, confidently, he continued reaching into the inner sanctum. “No, come on. Let’s see what it is,” he retorted.

      Touching the top of the stack, he pulled out a rag. With their attentions drawn to the new found treasure, they hadn’t notice the increased rumble, buzz and hums emanating from the pile. Suddenly, a few large bees took flight. It was a nest of bumble bees!

       Still unaware, Andy impatiently confirmed, “Ok. It’s just a rag. Can we go now?”

      But before anyone could respond, the air filled with angry bees. Chaos ensued. The gang of boys ran yelling in all directions. In an effort to escape, one of the older boys knocked Sam down to the ground and shot out of the yard. Scrambling, Mike tripped over Sam. Jumping up, he pushed past Danny, attempting to evade the fierce denizens.

      As if mesmerized, the bumble bees chased after Mike, in hot pursuit. Swinging his arms and hands furiously, he clambered past the other boys heading straight for home. No matter which way he zigged, zagged, or swatted, the bees remained locked on target.

      Intense pain radiated through his neck and head as his attackers initiated their assault.  Tears flowed as he screamed in desperation! One by one the black and yellow striped demons buried their stingers and pulled away.

      As he sped closer to the house, Mom quickly appraised the situation. She rushed out the door, jumped off the porch and, using her apron as a whip, chased off the remaining attackers. Falling to her knees, she embraced her son, cradled his shaking body in her arms and carried him to the safety of home.

      Offering consoling words, she wiped his tears while examining his injuries. Rapidly, she mixing a baking soda paste and applied it to the welts to draw out the venomous poisons. Then she applied towel-wrapped ice to reduce the swelling.

      He’d received a dozen stings on the back of his head and neck.  Strangely, the other boys escaped without injury. Rocking him on her lap, she offered him the first slice of freshly baked bread, now spread with butter and sugar. What had begun as a bumbling spring day was once again a tranquil, budding one.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © April 2017

Stars & Bars Forever

Another True Story

      There stood Maggie in the doorway. Hesitant, she flashed those big brown beautiful cow-eyes my way. Their liquid warmth sparkled with hungry anticipation. As our eyes met an unsettled foreboding came over me.  I detected a hint of hellish fiery discontent in those sanguine dark pools.

      Earlier in the fall my boss had introduced several young calving heifers into the existing one hundred head Holstein herd. The purpose: acclimate them to the milking process once they had calved. They were all pretty skittish at first but adjusted, all but Maggie. She took skittish to a new level. She was always the last one into the holding pen and always last into the milking stalls. Yet the taste of grain from the feeder seemed to quell her ambivalence.

      The routine was simple: get them into the milking stalls, begin feeding, drop the back-out bar behind them if necessary, and raise the stainless steel milking cluster under their udder. This allowed them to adjust to the rhythmic sucking sounds of the milkers. That was it. All the heifers had become accustom to that routine during their pregnancy, except Maggie. And now she had delivered.

      On this particular day, as was her custom, she entered the doorway, looked around the barn, eyed the empty stall in front of her and waited or backed out again. Then, a few minutes before the mature cows had finished milking, she slowly walked up to the feeder. Her black and white spotted figure barely cleared the short doorway header. She placed her head in the feeder box and began eating with one eye fixed on me. As I approached, her head bolted. Hurriedly, she back out of the stall as if a bee stung her nose.

      Since she had calved, she had to be milked! My teenage mind conceived a plan. As she backed out the one door, I hopped the rail on the opposite side of the barn, ducked my head to miss the header, ran up from behind and chased her back in. Once there, she began feeding peacefully. Then, as the other cows finished their milking, I returned to remove their milkers.  With stealth, I dropped the back-out bar behind her as I passed. She noticed but didn’t seem to mind. I thought I was home free but I was wrong. She had a plan too.

      Not wishing to startle her, I walked up beside her and gently lifted the cluster under her. As she spied me she raised her hind left leg and, with lightning speed, kicked my arm sending the cluster flying. Thankfully the vacuum pump lines saved them from hitting the floor. They hung suspended in air. But the pain in my forearm fueled my anger. She tried to back from the stall again but the back-out bar her caught her rump. Surprised, she pressed forward into the feeder box and, feeling trapped, kicked out toward me again with greater angst! This called for drastic measures.

      Earlier that spring, my boss showed me how to use “the Kickers” for stubborn cantankerous bovines. By now I had become well versed in the practice. With equal speed and a boiling temper, I grabbed the vise-like tool off the wall, scooted the step-stool to the railing, climbed the steps and forced them down over her hips. The side bars fit loosely in front of her young thighs. Gripping the swivel handle, I cranked them down as tight as I could. Unfortunately, there was still free play left in them giving my adversary some unintended freedom of movement.

      I climbed down and retrieved the cluster still swinging from the lines. With a flurry, I placed them on her, then whisked my arms back as she attempted to kick me again. Having an under-developed smallish udder, the teat-cups lost air and slipped down as if to fall off. Reluctantly, I reached in and lifted them back into position. All seemed to be working as she let down her milk.

      As the milk flow tapered off, I reached in to remove the cups and cluster. But as I leaned in, she kicked with all her might knocking the cluster and pump out of my hands and down into the accumulated manure below. They hit with a splash sending fecal matter everywhere. Then, shifting her weight, she knocked the back-out bar out of position. Shoving herself in reverse, she slammed the back-out bar up allowing a free retreat. She retreated through the entry chute and made her escape into the holding pen.

      I was exasperated! Angry, I jumped the rail, ducked my head and flew through the low doorway. In my rage I misjudged its elevation. My capped head hit the door header with full force. Golden stars appeared in a sea of black. My last vision was the wooden fence post and railing not six feet away. Losing consciousness, I lunged forward catching the top of the post.  Wrapping my arms around it, I clung tight as if my life depended on it.

      I remained motionless with my head throbbing in pain and my ears ringing. I hung suspended above the barn floor for who knows how long. Slowly, my vision returned while the stars continued swirling in my pounding head.

       Maggie had won this round. I would survive to fight another day. As a comforting thought, I imagined she would probably make good steaks.

By Michael Alumbaugh, © March, 2017