My mother always referred to herself “a hothouse flower”. This, I believe, largely because she preferred the sanctity of her home to being outside commiserating with the great outdoors. This preference for inside spaces could also have been because mother loved to cook, she enjoyed decorating her home, and a dinner party truly was her favorite way to entertain. Never in my memory did we spend much time as a family outside growing up. Though we had a lovely garden surrounding our home, it was my stepfather who was the gardener. For a man not imbued with a great joy for living or a celebrator of humankind, the man could create the most beautiful rose gardens I have ever seen. Mother, on the other hand, was abysmal at gardening. I’ve seen plants hang themselves simply on seeing her step onto a nursery’s grounds. Another reason she preferred having a roof over her head, is the sun wasn’t a good place for her. Blessed with delicate English skin, we used to tease her she could potentially ignite if exposed to direct sunlight. The woman could get a sunburn sitting under an umbrella in the shade wearing a suit of armor. Due to her lack of exposure, she looked twenty years younger than her actual age, and enjoyed beautiful unwrinkled skin until the day she died. There’s a lesson to be learned here which I am reminded of every time I make a visit to my dermatologist. Sigh.
In spite of my mother’s hesitancy about nature, I loved being outside from the time I exited the womb. I walk every day. I do this for exercise, yes, but more because it quite literally refreshes my soul. Seeing the squirrels shimmying up the tree trunks, the gorgeous flowers abloom in people’s yards, the smells of wet earth and grass from recently run sprinklers, all combine to create a lovely space for me to start my day.
When I was in my teens, my parents, like many in their peer group, bought a nice house in the suburbs. The four bedroom, two and a half bath, ranch style home, included a built-in pool in the backyard. God, I loved that pool. I wouldn’t have cared if the house had indoor plumbing. When I saw that magnificent swimming pool glistening in the afternoon sun, it was “Sold” all the way for me. The realtor told us the previous owners had a gifted swimmer in the family, who they expected to be headed to the Olympics. The pool had been installed to help him reach his goal. There were two diving boards plus a slide included in the price of admission, and I couldn’t have been more delighted. Looking back, I think most of my free moments over my high school years I could be found either submerged beneath the surface, or skimming across the top, of that lovely body of blue water. This contributing to the swimmer’s ear I have dealt with most of my life, and the persistent pre-cancers I have to have zapped off several times a year at the skin doctor. Secretly, it was worth every lap. What a great time we had in my backyard. During the summer months it became a natural gathering place for the neighborhood kids. My parents both worked, which left us lots of wiggle room to turn the music up, and make every day a party. Our neighbor used to say she heard “Marco”, “Polo”, in her sleep over the summer months. Even in their absence, I stayed within the boundaries of good sense, and only got in as much trouble as the traffic would bear so as not to get stuck on restriction.
There wasn’t much I was afraid of as a kid. Swimming came naturally to me, growing up by the sea. I think sometimes I over compensated because of my mother. At times she could be overly protective, the original version of “helicopter mom”. Truth was, there were a lot of things my mom was afraid of. If I was afraid, I tried hard not to let anyone see my fear. However, when it came to one particular flying insect, it was impossible for me to keep the panic under wraps. The bee, was my kryptonite along with all the beelike creatures such as wasps, hornets and the like. Now, it’s not that this is a totally irrational fear. Bees do sting, and in some cases their sting can be deadly, should the person be allergic to them. I am not. Rationally, I understand their value in nature. Aside from producing very delicious honey, they pollinate, which is essential to so many plants. Crops would disappear such as coffee, cocoa, tomatoes, to name a few was our bee population was to disappear. Wasps and hornets, though I’m not fond of the annoying little buggers, they’ve ruined a picnic or campout or two for me along the line, have beneficial qualities as well. They keep our insect population at a manageable number. Without them, we would be overrun with all manner of creepy crawly little creatures. Ewwww. There’s some fodder for your nightmares, in case you were short of material.
Though intellectually I understand the importance of the honey bee et al, I just wish they’d get on with pollinating and take less interest in whatever exposed skin I happen to be showing on any given day. For some reason, they find me immensely attractive. They are not alone in this lustful pursuit of my body either, because for mosquitos I seem to be like catnip to a feline. As I said, I’m not allergic. But when I bee stings me this does not prevent me from swelling up like a balloon or suffering from tortuous itching once an insect has injected it’s venom under my skin. The first sting I ever had was when I was around ten. Of all places, it was on one of my toes. This, undoubtedly because of my habit of running around like a native in my bare feet 90% of the time. The toe in question swelled to momentous portions and then split in the middle like an overcooked hot dog. I do hope you weren’t eating as you were reading that. Sorry. Epi pens didn’t exist back then. I don’t remember knowing anyone who died from a sting, nor did I know one single kid in school who suffered from peanut allergies. Certainly they existed, and it is true we didn’t have the Internet to move things along when I was a kid, but still it is interesting it seemed less prevalent than today. It has been suggested by some studying this, we are perhaps “too clean” these days. We disinfect everything from our tabletops to our pets paws, and don’t allow our children to build up a natural immunity to germs they will come in contact with every day. Another interesting thought. Perhaps kids need to eat a few mud pies, or eat an Easter egg from last year’s basket or something. I don’t have solutions, but it does seem there are more allergies going about with all the disinfectant soap, spray, and lotion evident everywhere you look. I’m just sayin.
Once I was stung, the word got out apparently. By young adulthood my natural survival instincts began to kick in and I developed a healthy dislike, albeit phobia, of the nasty little honey makers. This brings me to my story for today.
In my late twenties I accepted an invitation for dinner from a man I worked with. We had not been out before. Very attractive, I was looking forward to our get together to learn more about him away from a work environment. He had advised me ahead of time we would be eating dinner at the Mark Hopkins Hotel in San Francisco. This hotel houses a very tony restaurant catering to a high end clientele, so I chose my clothes carefully. Back then, you dressed for dinner. A little black dress was a standard in most every woman’s closet. I slipped mine on for this special night on the town. The dress was paired with nylons (I know!!!) and heels. In my grandmother’s day a lady didn’t leave the house without gloves and a hat, so this was definitely a step up. At precisely 5:30 as we’d planned, the doorbell rang. Opening it to find him looking handsome in his suit, I grabbed my coat and we were off. The car, “his baby” as he put it, was a black Trans Am. Very nice. I settled into the comfortable passenger seat and buckled up. It was about an hour’s drive into the city but by the time we parked and dealt with the traffic on a Saturday night, we should arrive right on time for our 7:00 reservations. Yay.
San Francisco has always been one of my favorite cities to visit. The setting, beautiful, the restaurants, fabulous and the general ambience of the city itself, captivating. Even now, with so many homeless lining the streets. I hold hope that situation will somehow find a solution, the displaced people find a roof of their own, and the City eventually able returned to it’s former glory. Driving downtown is always a project. Streets angle up to the sky and cascade equally steeply down the other side. There are mazes of one way streets, and traffic most times of day can be congested. That night was to be no exception. We pulled up to a crowded intersection not too far from our destination. In the right turn lane, my date was watching the steady flow of traffic coming to his left, so his head was turned in that direction. He told me later he heard me yell something, then the car door open, but he was turning. When he completed the turn, there was no one sitting in the passenger’s seat. Looking in his rear view mirror he said saw me standing on the street corner in my lovely little black dress waving. What the he….?. Thinking I had either fallen out of the car by accident or possibly had a brain hemmorage and completely lost my mind, there was nothing for him to do but sit in lines of endless weekend traffic and circumvent the large city block to get back to me. Meanwhile, tick, tock, our reservations were disappearing along with the lovely sunset now barely visible over the Bay. It was getting dark, and I was getting cold. People didn’t have cell phones in the cars back then. You found a pay phone if you were lucky and had change, or didn’t make the call. By the time he reached me, our reservation time had come and gone. I have to give it to him, he, did come back for me, and at least he opened the door for me to get back in.
“What happened”, was his obvious first question. “A bee”, says I. “What”, says he? “Did you just say a bee”? “Why yes, as it happens I did.” I went on to explain a huge bee, probably mutant in size, had flown up in my face and was in my hair. The flight or fight syndrome kicked into high gear, and I chose flight. There was a very pregnant silence in the car while he assimilated this incredible bit of information. I had a feeling our second date wasn’t going to be coming up any time soon. Once things had settled down a bit, we decided to see if they’d held our reservation. Apparently to the folks at Mark Hopkins, 7:00 p.m. means 7:00 p.m. Since we had paid for parking, we walked around until we found a little cafe that had available seating. Sitting there in my little black dress, the conversation wasn’t exactly flowing. I ate a delicious cheese burger, with fries, and tried to make the best of the evening. Had he been a different type of guy, this could have been a funny memory. It still makes me laugh when I think of it. But, alas he was not. As it happens, that is not my type of guy, so we said our rather chilly goodnights at my door. After that, though cordial at work, we pretty much avoided being alone together for any length of time.
I’m not much afraid of bees anymore. I had my wedding ring cut off when one stung me on my ring finger. The following year, I was stung in the laundromat and the critter dropped down my shirt. I proceeded to nearly disrobe for a very entertained man sitting across from me who just came in to do a load of whites. I’m sure he still speaks of me. On another occasion, my eye completely swelled shut just before going on a job interview. I looked like the wife of The Fly when I showed up for my appointment. The hive has taken their best shot, and guess what you little pollen dusters, I’m still here.
At any rate, bee happy, bee free, bee kind, and bee in the moment. Happy hump day to you.
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