Richard Daybell – Novels, stories and short humor
It’s barely spring, and the hills of Vermont are alive with the sound of eighty degree temperatures, giving us a chance to venture out into the great outdoors. A little maintenance, clean out a flower bed or two, rake. Our resident swarm of bees had the same idea — without the raking. We’ve long debated whether these bees are honey bees or some less desirable species.
I have ended the debate. They are killer bees — murderous, cutthroat, bloodthirsty killer bees. And one of their crack snipers got me. I was tending to a bed, not threatening them in any way, and he swooped in and stung me on my eyelid. Before long I looked like I had caught a baseball with my right eye. I tried to recall what I had seen or heard about treating a bee sting and the Rodgers and Hammerstein cure came to me. I spent the rest of the day remembering my favorite things, even drinking a couple of them. It did nothing for me.
I spent a while standing out in front, stooped over, looking very much like Quasimodo, frightening away passing neighborhood children. But I soon tired of this game.
Eventually I toddled off to bed. But sleep wouldn’t come. Finally I remembered Irving Berlin’s prescription for insomnia and began methodically counting my blessings instead of sheep. As it turns out, one’s blessings and one’s favorite things are pretty much the same. Three a.m. I’m on my 137th blessing and wide awake. I won’t bore you with the details of my 137 blessings, but I
will tell you that Rodgers and Hammerstein and bees are not among them.
Today I will perch atop the rock wall out front on hands and knees pretending to be a radiation-mutated giant bullfrog, croaking at passers by. Life goes on.
Be my little baby bumble bee. Buzz around. Buzz around. Keep abuzzing round.