greybeard
Well-known member
...rob a bee tree.
(Feel free add your own mis-adventures to this)
When I was about 14 or 15, during the summer vacation from school, my twin brother and I were helping a friend of my father's to clear some trees off the place I live on now to dig a pond (tank). He had an old (then) saggy tracked TD14 dozer with a cable operated blade that was lucky to work 2 days in a row without throwing a track. Most of the pushing was pine, and any oak had to have a 1" cable tied up in it about 15 feet and the other end clevised into the drawbar so the dozer could rock the tree back and forth and pull it down. That was our job for the most part. Brother or I would drive up to the tree on an 8n Ford with a dinky FEL on it, raise the other one up with the cable and hook the cable on. That was our "summer job" with no pay of course. For 90 lb boys it was hard work dragging that long cable around. We rode with the dozer operator everyday back and forth from our home about 45 miles each way, wore out every night when we got home. One day, I went to hook the cable up in an old Magnolia tree and just as I got the cable around it and the hook set, I saw it had a hollow in it right above with bees all around it. He went ahead and pulled it down and the old operator said "I'll leave that one layin' and you boys can rob the honeycomb out of it tomorrow--Yore daddy can tell ya how to do it tonight."
At supper that night,Dad said one of us to put on some long sleeve coveralls, a pair of them old thick, rubber chemical gloves he brought home from Humble and put a towel on under a hardhat to protect our ears, and chop into the hive with an axe. The other was to get a long green stick and wire a big wad of oily rags on it to light and hold to keep the bees off the ax guy. I remember my mother saying she sure would like some real honey on biscuits instead of "that ol store bought honey" The die was cast. That might as well have been a direct commandment from the Good Lord himself. An rare opportunity for 2 rambunctious boys to please their mother--something we did far to often in those days. (I won't say we were terribly ill behaved, but it's fairly accurate to say Dad wore out a belt, every willow switch within a mile of home, and 2 sets of elbows trying to keep us on the straight and narrow path.) He said he would get everything laid out we would need on the front porch before he left for work. I heard him out in the shop a little later with that old air grinder. Sure enough, there in a chair on the porch was a pair of those old heavy herringbone longsleeved refinery coveralls, a pair of rubber gloves, one of mother's old towels, a beat up old aluminum hardhat, a newly sharpened single bit axe, and about 4 mushroomed head splitting wedges I knew he had inherited from his father up in NE Texas. Looked like they had already split every tree in Bowie County, but it was what he laid out--along with his dad's old crosscut saw. (Dad didn't believe in chainsaws back then--cost too much ) A note on top said to move back about 4' each side of the hollow, and saw that part from the tree first, then light the rags and start splitting from one end. Sounded simple enough to a knotheaded young kid that didn't know squat about bees.
We worked as usual till about 3 oclock, then that dozer operator said "come on" parked that raggedy old IH under a shade tree and sat down on the tracks to watch from a safe distance. (he was allergic to bee and wasp stings and had a heart condition to boot--kept a little bottle of nitro pills in his pocket, one of which I later had to put under his tongue--but that's a story for another time) The sawing went without a hitch, 'cept as usual, my brother slack armed his end of the saw. (You can always tell cause when you push, the saw bows a little if the guy on the other end isn't pulling) We flipped a coin, and I started pulling on the coveralls, which were about 5 sizes too big and long, hotter than what I had always imagined Hades itself to be, I rolled up the legs, buttoned them to the neck, and at the wrists, then dropped that towel over my head and crammed the hardhat down over my otherwise burr head. I looked like a walking salesman for Omar th Tent Maker or Lawrence of Arabia with a bad tailor, as my brother lit the wad of oily rags wired onto the end of a long willow branch. We didn't know about bees and smoke and thought the smoke should be on me. I knelt down and started driving them wedges in with the single bit, and here them bees come--mad bees--angry bees-demonized bees. I didn't know there could even be that many bees on the face of the globe. I was pouring sweat in them old coveralls and the bees zeroed in on that odor--those coveralls must have weighed 10 lbs by then. That little hollow disgorged more bees than God himself had sent locusts onto the Pharoh, cuz the air was dark with em and it sounded like I was next door to a 4 blade sawmill. I couldn't see crap with all that getup on, was about to choke on that used oil smoke but I could hear that operator yelling, "Keep drivin' boy!--Keep drivin 'em in" My brother had backed off a little bit as soon as he77 itself opened up, but kept that infernal stinkin' wad of rags which by now had become a ball of fire close by--till un-be-knownst to me-a bee flew in his ear and he took off like a scalded dog to and behind the safety of that old 8n. "Keep drivin' boy--ya almost got it--don't you stop!". I did, but them bees were tearin me up. Up my pants leg, under that towel, in my face, up my sleeves, on my burred scalp, between my fingers and everywhere else. From 50 feet away, I could hear that old dozer man laughing like a fat man reading little abner in the Sunday paper. Finally that trunk split open and there was the coveted comb. I stood up, turned around, jerked my arab head dress off, slung it in the general direction of the truck, and as I saw the offending fireball laying there and brother dearest peering from behind the Ford, I kicked that smokey burning wretch of useless crap over his way and was promptly rewarded with piece of it landing in what little hair I had left. The dozer operator was by this time, (at my expense and no small dismay) laying down on that track laughing so hard he couldn't see.
We were going to let the bees settle down, but when we went back a couple hrs later, they had vanished. Good riddance to em. I was swoll up everywhere that had skin, just one big red splotch of a face and both eyes looked like those of a chinaman.
Again, we knew nothing about bees or honey, so I started dipping that honey out and pulling the comb loose and putting it in some big pickle jars my mother had sent. Brother wisely elected to ride home in the back of the truck knowing full well I was gonna try to beat the living benice out of him if he got within reach of my puffed up hands.
Lots of comb, but it wasn't till we got home that night my parents told me the comb cells were all full of bee larve and we ended up with about 2 quart of honey for all that trouble. The wrong time of year to rob a bee tree. I honestly thought my mother and older sisters were going to faint when I walked in the door. I'm not allergic to bee stings, but I took a fever that night, shook, sweated, and shivered till the next night and stayed home from work for 3 days.
That was the same property i live on now, and tho I've walked every inch of it many times, that is the only bee tree I've ever seen. I'm good with that too.
So--what do you know how "Not To Do"?
(Feel free add your own mis-adventures to this)
When I was about 14 or 15, during the summer vacation from school, my twin brother and I were helping a friend of my father's to clear some trees off the place I live on now to dig a pond (tank). He had an old (then) saggy tracked TD14 dozer with a cable operated blade that was lucky to work 2 days in a row without throwing a track. Most of the pushing was pine, and any oak had to have a 1" cable tied up in it about 15 feet and the other end clevised into the drawbar so the dozer could rock the tree back and forth and pull it down. That was our job for the most part. Brother or I would drive up to the tree on an 8n Ford with a dinky FEL on it, raise the other one up with the cable and hook the cable on. That was our "summer job" with no pay of course. For 90 lb boys it was hard work dragging that long cable around. We rode with the dozer operator everyday back and forth from our home about 45 miles each way, wore out every night when we got home. One day, I went to hook the cable up in an old Magnolia tree and just as I got the cable around it and the hook set, I saw it had a hollow in it right above with bees all around it. He went ahead and pulled it down and the old operator said "I'll leave that one layin' and you boys can rob the honeycomb out of it tomorrow--Yore daddy can tell ya how to do it tonight."
At supper that night,Dad said one of us to put on some long sleeve coveralls, a pair of them old thick, rubber chemical gloves he brought home from Humble and put a towel on under a hardhat to protect our ears, and chop into the hive with an axe. The other was to get a long green stick and wire a big wad of oily rags on it to light and hold to keep the bees off the ax guy. I remember my mother saying she sure would like some real honey on biscuits instead of "that ol store bought honey" The die was cast. That might as well have been a direct commandment from the Good Lord himself. An rare opportunity for 2 rambunctious boys to please their mother--something we did far to often in those days. (I won't say we were terribly ill behaved, but it's fairly accurate to say Dad wore out a belt, every willow switch within a mile of home, and 2 sets of elbows trying to keep us on the straight and narrow path.) He said he would get everything laid out we would need on the front porch before he left for work. I heard him out in the shop a little later with that old air grinder. Sure enough, there in a chair on the porch was a pair of those old heavy herringbone longsleeved refinery coveralls, a pair of rubber gloves, one of mother's old towels, a beat up old aluminum hardhat, a newly sharpened single bit axe, and about 4 mushroomed head splitting wedges I knew he had inherited from his father up in NE Texas. Looked like they had already split every tree in Bowie County, but it was what he laid out--along with his dad's old crosscut saw. (Dad didn't believe in chainsaws back then--cost too much ) A note on top said to move back about 4' each side of the hollow, and saw that part from the tree first, then light the rags and start splitting from one end. Sounded simple enough to a knotheaded young kid that didn't know squat about bees.
We worked as usual till about 3 oclock, then that dozer operator said "come on" parked that raggedy old IH under a shade tree and sat down on the tracks to watch from a safe distance. (he was allergic to bee and wasp stings and had a heart condition to boot--kept a little bottle of nitro pills in his pocket, one of which I later had to put under his tongue--but that's a story for another time) The sawing went without a hitch, 'cept as usual, my brother slack armed his end of the saw. (You can always tell cause when you push, the saw bows a little if the guy on the other end isn't pulling) We flipped a coin, and I started pulling on the coveralls, which were about 5 sizes too big and long, hotter than what I had always imagined Hades itself to be, I rolled up the legs, buttoned them to the neck, and at the wrists, then dropped that towel over my head and crammed the hardhat down over my otherwise burr head. I looked like a walking salesman for Omar th Tent Maker or Lawrence of Arabia with a bad tailor, as my brother lit the wad of oily rags wired onto the end of a long willow branch. We didn't know about bees and smoke and thought the smoke should be on me. I knelt down and started driving them wedges in with the single bit, and here them bees come--mad bees--angry bees-demonized bees. I didn't know there could even be that many bees on the face of the globe. I was pouring sweat in them old coveralls and the bees zeroed in on that odor--those coveralls must have weighed 10 lbs by then. That little hollow disgorged more bees than God himself had sent locusts onto the Pharoh, cuz the air was dark with em and it sounded like I was next door to a 4 blade sawmill. I couldn't see crap with all that getup on, was about to choke on that used oil smoke but I could hear that operator yelling, "Keep drivin' boy!--Keep drivin 'em in" My brother had backed off a little bit as soon as he77 itself opened up, but kept that infernal stinkin' wad of rags which by now had become a ball of fire close by--till un-be-knownst to me-a bee flew in his ear and he took off like a scalded dog to and behind the safety of that old 8n. "Keep drivin' boy--ya almost got it--don't you stop!". I did, but them bees were tearin me up. Up my pants leg, under that towel, in my face, up my sleeves, on my burred scalp, between my fingers and everywhere else. From 50 feet away, I could hear that old dozer man laughing like a fat man reading little abner in the Sunday paper. Finally that trunk split open and there was the coveted comb. I stood up, turned around, jerked my arab head dress off, slung it in the general direction of the truck, and as I saw the offending fireball laying there and brother dearest peering from behind the Ford, I kicked that smokey burning wretch of useless crap over his way and was promptly rewarded with piece of it landing in what little hair I had left. The dozer operator was by this time, (at my expense and no small dismay) laying down on that track laughing so hard he couldn't see.
We were going to let the bees settle down, but when we went back a couple hrs later, they had vanished. Good riddance to em. I was swoll up everywhere that had skin, just one big red splotch of a face and both eyes looked like those of a chinaman.
Again, we knew nothing about bees or honey, so I started dipping that honey out and pulling the comb loose and putting it in some big pickle jars my mother had sent. Brother wisely elected to ride home in the back of the truck knowing full well I was gonna try to beat the living benice out of him if he got within reach of my puffed up hands.
Lots of comb, but it wasn't till we got home that night my parents told me the comb cells were all full of bee larve and we ended up with about 2 quart of honey for all that trouble. The wrong time of year to rob a bee tree. I honestly thought my mother and older sisters were going to faint when I walked in the door. I'm not allergic to bee stings, but I took a fever that night, shook, sweated, and shivered till the next night and stayed home from work for 3 days.
That was the same property i live on now, and tho I've walked every inch of it many times, that is the only bee tree I've ever seen. I'm good with that too.
So--what do you know how "Not To Do"?
