Barnstorm by Wayne; Page

of corn and hay fields into a respectable little farm. She only needed a man in the house to complete her perfect picture.
    Trip noticed the pride she exhibited and bounce in her step as Maggie strolled through the neat rows of dwarf apple trees and peonies framed against a freshly white-washed fence.
    “What’s with all the ants?” Trip inquired as he bent down to examine the plants more closely.
    “Heck if I know,” Maggie answered. “Like clockwork. Fat green bushes pop up ‘round Memorial Day. Then, bang. Ants everywhere. Full blossoms weigh down the bushes like heavy snowballs. The blossoms don’t last very long. See, only green bushes now. But the ants? Mystery to me.”
    Trip slapped the back of his neck to discipline a pair of industrious critters that were ready to scoot down his shirt collar. “Worthless little bugs.”
    “Irritating, maybe. But not worthless,” Maggie corrected as she opened the door to a small shed.
    No way was Trip following Maggie into this dark abyss.
    After only a few minutes, Maggie the astronaut exited the shed. At least Maggie looked like an astronaut. Covered from head-to-toe in a white, baggy jump suit, she looked like an actor on the set of Ghostbusters. She sounded like an overstuffed bag of potato chips as she waddled to Trip and handed him his own astronaut suit.
    “And what am I supposed to do with this?” Trip asked. Removing her mesh-net pith helmet, Maggie laughed, “Put it on.”
    “Why?”
    “If you didn’t like those ants crawling down your collar, you certainly aren’t gonna want bees buzzin’ down your pants.”
    “Bees?”
    “Yeah, it is time to harvest some honey.”
    Trip knew it was futile to protest. One leg partially in the white pants and hopping on one foot, Trip collapsed to the ground. This was the second time in the past hour he was putting on pants in front of Maggie. Flailing his legs like a wounded, left-legged grasshopper, he rose to his feet. Velcro flaps securely fastened at his ankles, now the straight-jacket top. This was easier. Even through her bee suit, he could see that she was laughing at him. More Velcro. Booties attached. Pith helmet with a fine-mesh overlay and he was ready for battle. Maggie assured him that her poking and prodding was designed to confirm that he was fully protected. He was not convinced that some ulterior motive was not at hand.
    “You look like a professional beekeeper,” Maggie said. “Any other last words of wisdom before I suffocate?” Trip asked.
    “No farting,” she laughed. “It can’t get out.”
    “Good advice,” Trip agreed as he checked every possible seam where a bee might invade his body.
    “Here, you pull the wagon,” Maggie instructed as she handed Trip the handle of a classically-rusted Radio Flyer that belonged in the Smithsonian. Loaded with a large plastic storage tub, the wagon rattled over every rut and tree root in the orchard as they maneuvered toward the double row of white boxes between the apple orchard and Gerty’s clover field.
    Maggie carried a weird contraption that looked like a cross between a watering can and the funnel hat from the Tin Man in a high-school production of The Wizard of Oz. The tour of Maggie’s farm had been harmless enough, but Trip wasn’t convinced he would live through this honey harvest.
    Maggie led the way. She stopped about ten feet shy of reaching the row of beehive boxes. She crumpled up some newspapers from Trip’s wagon and stuffed them in her funnel-topped doo-hickey. Striking a match, she lit the newspapers. Pumping a small bellows in the handle of the gizmo, white smoke sifted out of the funnel. It looked like a new Pope had just been elected.
    Trip gained a small measure of comfort as he watched Maggie hypnotize a thousand bees in the first beehive. A few wayward bees landed on her white protective suit, but they crawled around harmlessly. When two bees landed on the fine screen mesh that protected his face, Trip’s confidence