When I was a kid, I always thought it would be fun to go hunting for wild berries. I had these visions in my head of what an ethereal experience it would be based entirely on Disney's fabrication of Pocahontas. My idea of wild berry picking was carefree traipsing through the woods, bucket in hand, and my forest friends at my sides. My little humming bird friend would be catching berries on his long pointed beak while my raccoon companion stuffed his face and basked in the wonder of an old, wise, talking willow tree.
Reality flash:
Wild berry bushes have lots of thorns and grow among weeds that sting you.
I have never seen a talking tree, and if I did I probably would not take advice from it.
I don't have a hummingbird friend.
I don't have a raccoon friend either, but if I did I would have my husband shoot him.
Berry bushes are evidently prime real estate for bees.
When my boys pick berries, we stay at the edge of the patches on a mowed path where berries can be reached without too many thorns in the way. When they are otherwise occupied, I go into the woods and wade through the thorns, itchy stingy weeds, mosquitos, and brush to get to the big berry patches. On Saturday, I went out to the woods during the boys' rest time to gather berries without them being intercepted by a hungry preschooler.
The berry patches have been spreading every year and this year there was a literal jackpot of berries. About half way into the patch a bee started buzzing in front of my face and I swatted it away. It stung my hand but I just rubbed the spot and kept picking. Then I got stung by another bee. And I just kept picking. My boys were going to love the berries and the sorbets and the jellies and a couple stings weren't going to stop me.
And then I got stung again.
Finally I looked up to see a swarm of bees rising out of the berry patches like something from a killer bee horror movie. (Well, maybe not quite that bad, there was like 20 of them).
They came at my face and I frantically swatted them away, like a bad actor in said killer bee horror movie. My flailing hands flipped my sunglasses off my face, through the angry mob of bees, and gone forever into the berry brush. As I retreated I got stung yet again.
I regained my composure, now squinting in the sun.
Sometimes I'm not very smart. I'm sure if I did have a wise, old talking tree she would have told me to just stop and go back home.
But I went right back to picking berries, this time at the other end of the berry patch. As I got closer to the spot where I was stung four times, I finally saw it--a nice, round hive nestled in the berry bushes with bees busily swarming in and out and a treasure trove of ripe berries surrounding it. If it were a little bit more well-lit, it would have made a lovely painting. I stopped to admire it for a second. And then I just kept picking berries. If I was quiet and calm and didn't disturb them they wouldn't bother me either.
Well, evidently my mere presence did disturb because bee #5 attacked me and I retreated yet again. By now my berry-picking hand was rather swollen and I decided to finally call it quits for the day, possibly for the rest of the berry-picking season. I trudged back up to the house, my bucket not quite as full as I had hoped and no raccoon or humming bird to accompany me. Although I have been disappointed that we haven't gotten the buckets and buckets of berries like usual because we've had to avoid the largest berry patch, my husband was quick to point out that with out those bees we may not have any berries.
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