One of the most notable things about the town we live in is that it’s home to one of the provinces biggest honey producers. That means we have a lot of honey bees out and about.

On the warm days, my gardens are alive with them.

Dave and I argue a little about the bees. While he understands their importance, he’s not fond of them. He puts them all on par with any other yellow/black striped fliers. Wasps, hornets, bees… it’s all the same to him.

But I’ve always had a live and let live relationship with the little buzzers. Even the wasps. They don’t bother me and I don’t bother them. (Though if a wasp starts making a nest inside my porch – he gets shot with the wasp spray)

Personally, I’ve always found the honey bees to be exceptionally gentle. At least in the garden.

There have been many times when the pussywillows were alive with dozens upon dozens of bees.

I can walk right in and get up close and personal with my camera with no issues. They buzz about their business like I’m not even there.

In fact, last year was the first year I’d ever been stung by a bee. It happened twice. The first time, I was gathering up leaves from the gourds and squashes that I’d cut off. There must have been a poor bee somewhere in a pile. When I gathered them all up, I pulled them to my chest, and squished the wee lady against my arm – and boy did she let me know!

The second time was a few months later, I was walking across the grass in my flipflops. It was a little overdue for a cut, and concealed in the blades, was another poor bee. When I stepped far too close (pretty much on top of her), she stung me – right in the arch of my foot.

Both times, the stings were technically my fault… I just didn’t know the bees were there.

Hopefully, this year, I’ll step and work more carefully, and the bees and I can have a peaceful, fruitful season.