Barnstorm by Wayne; Page Page A

waned. He didn’t worry about Maggie’s admonition that he not fart. Frankly, at this point, he was more concerned about pooping his pants. A quick flick of his protective glove encouraged the fuzzy visitors causing his eyes to cross to flit away. He had an up-close view of the underside of two honey bees. This adventure was proving to be more interesting than threatening.
    “Hey, spaceman,” Maggie said. “Pull the wagon over here.”
    Trip pulled the wagon close to the first white box. The bees were dizzy, sleepy, or something other than hypnotized. They were so lethargic that Maggie was not hindered as she lifted the lid off the first beehive. Pulling frames of honeycomb and bee saliva out of the top of the box, one last puff from her magic dragon machine, and a gentle wave of her hand, most of the bees vacated the frames.
    “Here,” as she handed each frame to Trip, “stack these in the tub.”
    “Why are you only taking the top sleeves out? Trip asked.
    “Good question,” Maggie noted. “The bees need the honey in the lower hive to make it through the winter. Don’t want to kill the golden goose.”
    “Super,” Trip said.
    “Exactly,” Maggie agreed. “The top box section is called the ‘super’.”
    “Lucky guess.”
    Trip had become an able assistant. Up and down the row of white boxes, Maggie and Trip switched roles. Back and forth they went. Trip burned newspapers in the magic bellows and put the honeybees in their trance. Then he pulled the frames out of the super. They made a decent team.
    Within an hour, the white protective suits were once again stashed in the shed. The Radio Flyer wagon, with its precious cargo of dozens of wax frames crammed with bee spit was ready for the next step. Trip helped Maggie carry boxes of Mason jars to the workbench in the lean-to beside the shed. Maggie removed a rectangle of wax-coated honey from a frame and handed Trip a knife.
    “Without cutting off your finger, slice up a bunch of one-inch squares,” Maggie instructed.
    “Like this?” Trip asked as he balanced a drippy square on his knife.
    “Yep,” as Maggie held up a Mason jar. “Scrape it into the jar.” The waxy honey frame took up its new, bitesize residence in the collection of glass jars. “Lots of people like a tad of honey wax. Gives it character.”
    “Where’s the gooey stuff?”
    “It’s like mashing potatoes. I’ll come back tomorrow and squish the wax frames. A little messy, but worth the effort.”
    “That’s it?” Trip asked. “No cooking?”
    “Nope, all natural,” Maggie winked. “Just like me,” as she dipped a shoulder.
    They shared a good laugh at Maggie’s tease. Retreating to the farm house seemed timely. Trip was comfortable in letting down his guard. Maggie, the queen bee, had no sting.
    Trip relaxed on the front porch step. He sipped iced tea with fresh mint as Maggie first spread peanut butter on homemade bread, then slathered on a generous blob of the best honey Trip had ever tasted. As he rose to leave, Maggie handed him a jar of honey. “Here, Gerty can perform magic with this.”
    Accepting the gracious gift, Trip had forgotten that this episode began with an ill-fated skinny-dip. He had a new friend. “I enjoyed the tour Maggie, thanks,” he smiled.
    “Any time.”
    “And thanks for the beekeeping lesson. Don’t know how to repay you.”
    “Bring me some of Gerty’s fresh eggs.”
    “Frankly,” he exclaimed. “I’d rather dance with your bees.”
    Trip waved as he stepped off Maggie’s front porch. Halfway down her gravel lane, a honeybee landed on the back of his hand. “Howdy, little guy,” he said.
    The bee stung him. He sucked the stinger out and laughed.

Chapter Fifteen
    Thunderbolt beckoned. His brood of hens felt safe. Two days earlier, Trip had fended off millions, maybe only tens-of-thousands of honeybees. His Socrates hypno-waggle abilities held no sway in the chicken coop. Too dimly lit. Or Thunderbolt held more magical powers