Bees in America

by Tammy Horn

  Sealing off her brood cells, her honey, and quietly humming.

  …

  The villagers open the chambers, they are hunting the queen.

  Is she hiding, is she eating honey? She is very clever.

  She is old, old, she must live another year, and she knows it….

  Many middle-class white women in 1950s households could relate to Plath’s queen, caught in a trap of postwar expectations of domesticity, financial security, and families. In a remarkably prescient stanza in “The Arrival of the Bee Box,” Plath’s inability to put into language the noise of the hive and her mind come together:

  It is the noise that appalls me most of all,

  The unintelligible syllables.

  It is like a Roman mob,

  Small, taken one by one, but my god, together!

  Plath’s inability to communicate with the bees, her husband, and her therapist finally lead her to conclude: “I am no source of honey, / So why should they turn on me / Tomorrow I will be sweet God / I will set them free.”47 Ariel is prophetic, for Plath did set those unintelligible syllables free. However, her verses continue to be a source of comfort for many people feeling the same restlessness that comes with domesticity.

  The children’s literature market exploded in the 1960s. Lyndon B. Johnson’s Great Society policies established Head Start programs, which in turn legitimized children’s literature.48 Before then, as Eva Maria Metcalf argues, children’s literature was in a class of its own: “The belief that the child’s naïve, unadulterated, and uncritical view of the world should remain intact informed the idea of a separate world of childhood and children’s literature, which … barred children’s literature from mainstream literature and even more so from the privileged status of high literature, which had raised its barriers by celebrating art for art’s sake.”49

  Children’s illustrators had access to technology as never before. One of Maurice Sendak’s first works was a reissue of Frank Stockton’s nineteenth-century fairy tale, The Bee-Man of Orn. Sendak used watercolors and eighteenth-century fashions, creating a Bee-Man who looks like a colonial American. This reassuring beekeeper—fat, hairy, and jolly—completely revised the image of the beekeeper. The story emphasizes living off the land, being happy with natural products, and taking care of the bees and one’s fellow neighbors.

  Stories such as The Bee-Man of Orn teach about the values of beekeepers in a creative plotline, but do very little in the way of introducing children to the biological facts of bees. On the other hand, according to contemporary beekeeper Kim Lehman, there has been a good body of children’s literature about bees that is factually informative—that is, three parts of the body, three types of bees, two types of dances—but these books display little creativity. Lehman suggests that the twentieth century has encompassed both types of approaches to teaching bees to children, but only toward the end of the century has there been a balance of information and creativity, such as is apparent in Joanna Cole’s The Magic School Bus: Inside a Beehive.50 This book is creative, but it also manages to impart basic bee biology in a fun, colorful way. Cole’s book represents a major shift in approach from nineteenth-century children’s literature, which tended to be moralistic and portray bees as industrious, efficient, and capable of stinging if one made mistakes.

  The reality of being a bee inspector during this time period was no fairy tale, however. In order to supplement a high school teacher’s salary, Stephen Henderson agreed to be a bee inspector in Michigan. The pay was good, but people were still as protective of their bees as they were during the 1930s and 1940s. At one farm, the bees were considered pets, and whenever Henderson would arrive to check the hives, he was greeted with great clouds of goose droppings being thrown at him. Or brooms.51

  And then came the day when one of Henderson’s friends, Ertel Thompson, called to ask for a favor. It seemed that honey bees had settled inside the ceiling of his porch. Normally, this hadn’t been too much of a problem—until honey started dripping on his guests sitting outside.52 Henderson came prepared with crocks, a hive, and a steady sense of purpose. Not so his wife, Carolyn—or even Ertel Thompson. When Henderson took the first panel down from the ceiling, he found that the bees had built a long vertical comb that ran the length of the porch. He quickly found the queen and placed her in his hive, but the number of bees following her into the hive alarmed Carolyn and Ertel. They fled, leaving Steve to finish the job by himself.

  During the 1960s, Americans revolted against the conservative values of the previous decade. The entire culture experienced a paradigm shift: feminism, globalization, civil rights, environmentalism, and political protests. This move meant a fundamental redefinition of the American Dream. Americans were becoming more accepting of cultural, racial, and biological differences, but they didn’t do so peacefully or gracefully. The decade posed serious questions for the bee industry and for its culture: The honey bee was important, but in what ways? Should the bee be protected, and if so, to what extent? How much funding should Congress allow? What did the honey bee, an ancient symbol of industry, mean to a country that wanted to move away from industrialization?

  The 1970s

  New York City, 1978. Garbage strike. Trash piled ten feet high. Conditions are ripe for a disaster. Killer bees arrive on a boat from South America. As the bees begin to forage for food, they fly from garbage stack to garbage stack. Eventually, their nests get crowded. These killer bees then attack thousands of people. In 1978, Irwin Allen’s The Swarm reflected the public’s hysteria and helplessness about the advance of African honey bees. The movie’s reviews reflected the beekeeping community’s ire with Allen’s effort: “Hogwash,” said the eloquent Tom Sanford, entomologist at Ohio State University, who described the movie as “another brick in the wall preventing communication between the general public, farmers, and beekeepers.”53 In the Washington Star, an editorial read: “The notable cast—the biped cast members—has at least the grace to look frequently embarrassed at uttering the dialogue with which they have been afflicted.”54

  Embarrassed adequately describes U.S. officials, who had become alarmed by the advance of the African bees. Barrier proposals were drawn up to stop the African bee from migrating into North America. The first idea was to create a pesticide barrier at the Panama isthmus. The idea barely had time to be written on paper before the African bees swarmed past the isthmus. The second idea was to place thousands of European stock hives across the Panama, in effect a space is needed to create a genetic barrier in which European bees would interbreed with African honey bees and produce gentler bees. Again, this idea was not feasible given how quickly the African bees were moving and the amount of territory that would have to be considered.

  What was finally put in place was an African bee trap line, stretching between the Texas and Mexico border. The purpose was not to stop the honey bee, which many knew to be a futile endeavor from the beginning. Rather, officials wanted to be prepared when the African honey bee arrived. It was thought that quarantines would prevent the rapid spread, but even those in place (such as the one in Texas) have come under debate at the time this book was written. Ironically, by the time the African honey bee reached Texas in 1990, it entered with a whimper, not with a bang.

  The killer bee controversy generated so much publicity that it served a variety of social functions, however. When Texas Republicans decided to “kill” Lieutenant Governor Bill Hobby’s legislation in 1979, Hobby nicknamed the dissident politicians the “Killer Bees.” These Killer Bee senators were determined to thwart Hobby’s legislative efforts to allow a separate primary day on the issue of redistricting Texas. If a bill for such a primary were to be voted on by the Senate (controlled by the Democrats), the Killer Bees feared minorities might have a tougher time being elected to office. Elected officials would use new census figures to reconfigure districts that would last for at least ten years. “Ordinarily,” according to journalist Robert Heard, “the separate-day primary bill could not
have been considered because its supporters lacked the two-thirds vote needed in the Senate to bring up the proposal ‘out of order.’”

  But Governor Hobby invoked an obscure rule that had not been used since 1961: as long as he posted public notice that he would introduce an out-of-order bill for vote, he could and would expect the senators to vote on a separate-day primary. The Killer Bees cried foul. They decided to prevent a quorum by refusing to show up to the Senate. On Friday, May 18, 1979, ten senators did not show up to the Senate floor to vote on the separate-day primary. The majority stayed only blocks away from the capital, convinced that Hobby would let his bill die a good-natured death. But Hobby would not let his plans die so easily. An old-fashioned, dirt-slinging Texas battle was on. Hobby did what any good Texas politician would do: he called the Texas Rangers. The Texas Rangers, a law enforcement unit lingering from Reconstruction times, still had the authority to bring criminals—and politicians—to justice. Hobby ordered the Rangers to find one rogue senator and bring him to the Senate floor during the three days that the bill remained on the docket.

  The Killer Bees had not counted on that. They had not brought changes of clothing, toothbrushes, cigarettes, or the necessary diversions that would help them tolerate each other’s company for three days. But the Rangers were searching high and low for them. To venture out was risky. The Rangers stopped cars at interstates; they searched the borders. No luck. So the Killer Bees snuck out from their hideout—hiding in trunks of cars, tucking themselves behind car seats, or going incognito—until the separate-day primary died on the floor because Hobby could not call a quorum. The Killer Bees had won!

  Consequently, underrepresented groups in Texas had a better chance of appropriate representation. “It was a victory for representative government,” applauded Robert Heard, “making it easier for Texas liberals, blacks, browns, and even Republicans to win election to Congress and the Legislature.”55 This political standoff would serve as a precedent for Texas politics in 2003 when Texas Democrats decided to do the same thing, except they learned from the Killer Bees—the Killer “Ds” booked a hotel floor in Oklahoma.

  In reality, beekeepers had more to fear from chalkbrood than the African honey bee, although chalkbrood did not make good headline material. In 1972, chalkbrood first appeared among beehives in California. Although in general fungal diseases do not attack living insects, chalkbrood does, using late larval stage honey bees for their food.56 The disease covers the larvae with a weblike material that resembles gauze. In fact, at this stage, they resemble “soft” and “fluffy” mummies, according to Morse.57 If the healthy bees do not carry these mummies out, the mummies will get hard as the fungus reaches the reproduction stage. They then will turn black. Chalkbrood gets its name from its initial appearance in the hive, but if the fungus advances, a mixture of white, black, and white-black mummies can be found in the colony. When this fungal disease first appeared, it was made worse by migratory beekeeping. Chalkbrood spread to the other states quickly, although beekeepers quickly learned to deal with its effects, having been warned ahead of time.

  Pollination was the name of the game during the 1970s, both in terms of scientific experiments and migratory beekeeping. Dr. Willard Robinson’s research with Red Delicious apples brought renewed attention to the importance of pollination. Although Red Delicious apples were developed in New York in 1872, those trees had not been prolific apple producers. Robinson discovered that the Red Delicious has a peculiar blossom structure that prevents honey bees from pollinating it, as they do other flowers. Most apple varieties will not set fruit unless they receive pollen from a different variety. Pollen from a flower on the same tree, or from an adjacent tree of the same variety, will not grow and fertilize an ovary. In old-fashioned plantings, where twenty-seven large trees were usually planted per acre, every third tree in every third row was a pollenizer. In a Red Delicious orchard, however, farmers could plant crab apples, which are great cross-pollinators. They could place more hives in those fields in order to ensure adequate pollination. In short, Robinson’s study prompted renewed appreciation of the complexities of pollination.

  Combined with the hippie movement, the 1970s were a time of incredible inflation in sugar prices, and hence honey prices. “The real changes in commercial beekeeping were from 1972 to 1980,” explains Horace Bell in Following the Bloom. “All through those years people came out of the woodwork. Every Tom, Dick, and Harry with a hive of bees jumped into beekeeping.”58

  Meanwhile, more beekeepers lost more bees due to the pesticide sprays. In 1977, E. C. Honl, who got his start with the CCC, lost a thousand colonies because Penncap-M was sprayed on alfalfa.59 In 1978, a major bee kill occurred in East Central Wisconsin. Several sweet corn companies were located nearby. This case went all the way to the state supreme court, where it was determined that the beekeepers should have kept better records of how many bees they had lost, documented the days on which the bees died, and recorded the damage with a third, objective party present. Because other farmers had not complained about pesticide damage, the company was reluctant to take the beekeepers seriously. This judgment reinforced the disastrous effects that could occur when companies and farmers became careless in their spraying and did not follow the strict warnings posted on the pesticide label.

  Incidentally, when the price of honey rose, the government matched the market price. Rather than finding a lot of new markets to sell to, a few beekeepers sold (that is, dumped) their inferior honey on the CCC, which had to accept the honey as payment for loans. Beekeepers who were smart sold their superior grades above the market prices in their own local markets. Not all did this. But enough did so that, in a characteristic understatement, Whynott states, “It was hard for people to accept the idea of a beekeeper with a gross income over a million dollars, and nearly impossible to accept the idea of that beekeeper turning his entire crop over to the government.”60

  There were bright spots in education, however. Women researchers were entering the field, and their research would prove to be beneficial in the 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s. As a student at Preston College in Arizona, Marla Spivak picked up a book about beekeeping, having never thought about bees before. She was fascinated by the bees’ interaction as well as the social relationships among the beekeepers themselves. She used a flexible class schedule to allow her to work with a commercial beekeeping outfit in New Mexico for college credit. Sue Cobey, who had a commercial beekeeping background, took a couple of beekeeping classes with Harry Laidlaw and was influenced by his passion for the topic. Both women credit their male colleagues as being very supportive of their efforts to learn artificial insemination, to study African bees, or, later, to support their work on hygienic behavior or disease-resistant bees.

  The Vietnam War, like the Korean War, did not affect American beekeepers in ways as immediate as World Wars I and II had. There were no rations, no urgent need for beeswax, and no concern about pollination. However, the effects were to be found in a general recession that affected the availability of bee supplies. In 1974, with the country in recession, “The Vietnam War was taking its toll. Galvanized steel could not be secured…. Lumber became difficult to obtain,” writes Mary Kay Franklin.61

  It’s no surprise that the roll call of beekeepers is as impressive as in previous wars. After enlisting as a noncommissioned officer in 1958, Stanley Hummer served as a helicopter rescue medic first, and then served as a navigator for the air force. After twenty-two years’ worth of missions across the world, “he retired and opened Hummer and Son Honey Farm” in Louisiana.62 Or at least that is what the obituary states. His son Billy tells another story: When Billy was in fifth grade, he wanted to raise bees as a 4-H project. He and his dad ordered their first colony from Sears and Roebuck. An hour after they arrived, the bees left. Stanley and Billy ordered more bees, and these stayed. Billy credits the military with instilling in his father a respect for order and the processes by which things get done. “As a major,” Billy Hummer states,
“my father was used to managing people, so it was a good fit to begin managing ‘little people’” (that is, bees).63

  Upon his return from Vietnam in 1970, Larry Walker took over operating his father’s, Chase Walker’s, business, the Los Angeles Honey Company.

  In 1972, a veteran named James Rodden returned to the Odessa Plains with one obsession: to make mead. Although his efforts ended in failure, he spent hours working on his hive. In this way, his friend Chuck Anderson figured, Russ was able to piece a world back together in his hive.64

  Beekeeper Charlotte Stevenson’s fiancé, Vietnam veteran John, should not be left out of this discussion. This is a man who had flown helicopters during Vietnam and who had survived bullets and hand grenades. He felt confident he could handle bees. In a series of very bad decisions detailed in her article, “How Not to Move Bees,” Charlotte and John let both of their smokers go out in the damp Florida terrain. When bees got inside Charlotte’s veil, she fled, leaving John to move the bees himself: “Dark. Angry Bees. No smokers. When [Charlotte] returned … [she] found John pressing on, as in Vietnam. And, as in Vietnam, he was losing.” Although he was not armed with a smoker, he was determined to move the bees—but not just any bees. Insanely angry bees. John probably does qualify for a Purple Heart. He “steadfastly unloaded those bees amid the fray and paid no attention as [Charlotte] helped then ran, helped then retreated. He never retreated. He took more hits. But the job was done.”65 This narrative has a happy ending: he married Charlotte anyway.

  For those veterans who came back from Vietnam, writer Chuck Anderson states, honey bees often provided a way to reconnect with another form of society than the ones in which they had participated in so violently.

  Somewhere between the slim, strutting Jimmy Page look-alikes and the Tina Turner wannabes, Van Morrison, the Belfast Cowboy, carved a place for himself in the American rock ‘n’ roll music scene. Although he was from Ireland, Van Morrison charmed his way into the American mind-set with the sublime “Tupelo Honey” in 1971. Morrison freely admits that his influences were from the American South, citing Leadbelly and the Carter Family (particularly Sara) as his primary influences when growing up in Ireland: “I had this book, it was called The Alan Lomax Folk Guitar Book, and it was mainly based on the Carter Family style, which was a picking style, and that’s fundamentally the folk style as we know it today. So that’s what I was learning. I listened to records as well, of the Carter Family and Lead Belly [sic], while I was practicing.” Huddie Ledbetter, better known as Leadbelly, had been serving time in Angola Prison when collector John Lomax passed by, hoping to “capture the songs of Negroes with the least contact with jazz, the radio and with the white man,” according to Clinton Heylin.66 Leadbelly fit the bill, and his songs along with the gospel sound of the Carter Family happened to make it into a songbook bought by Van Morrison’s father while in Detroit.