The Worst Beekeeper in the World


The honeybee, that busy little alchemist, is a marvel. No other insect has inspired so much poetry, so much rapturous prose. After a few of my friends got bee hives and raved about the contemplative pleasures of beekeeping, I decided to take up the hobby myself. Here is my story.

I got a beehive this spring. I set it in my yard right by the patio and eagerly awaited the arrival of my bees. They arrived on a truck, which I met at the Exxon station beside the Tennessee Titans stadium. The truck was stacked high with a hundred or more shoebox-sized cages (“packages” is the lingo), each containing about five thousand bees.

You have heard a bee buzz; imagine the buzz of five hundred thousand bees, agitated from an hour’s ride on the interstate. The bee truck, thrumming with so much life, was the first great spectacle of my beekeeping career.

When I got the bees home, I put on the bee veil and goatskin gloves that Andrew Peterson either loaned me or gave me (I was a little vague on this point). I opened up the top of my hive. Then I opened up my box of bees, just enough to remove a tiny cage containing the queen, and shut it again before the other five thousand bees came blurring out. The queen cage I attached to the frame in the middle of my hive.

The queen is the center of the whole operation; wherever she is, the rest of the bees will want to stay. Bees are free to come and go from their hive, but they always come back to their queen. The queen is held captive in the hive for the first few days to ensure that the whole hive doesn’t light out for the the next county as soon as they’re out of the package. The means by which the queen gains her freedom is quite ingenious. The exit from her cage is plugged by a piece of marshmallow that takes several days for bees to chew through. By the time she is able to get out, she is accustomed to the hive and chooses stay. And therefore the rest of the bees stay put.

Once the queen was secured, I opened the bee package, turned it upside down, and shook five thousand bees into the hive. I stood there in a swirling cloud of bees. It was thrilling, I don’t mind telling you.

Andrew Peterson claims he has never been stung in three years of beekeeping. Maybe that’s true. It wasn’t my experience. My bees hadn’t been on the premises 24 hours before they started stinging me. I am willing to accept at least part of the blame here; I wasn’t always diligent about wearing the protective gear. I watched quite a few Youtube videos in which beekeepers handled their bees with neither veil nor gloves. It seemed so peaceful and symbiotic and, well, right. It later occurred to me that perhaps those beekeepers had smoked their bees to oblivion before turning on the camera. I don’t know. I just know that my unsmoked bees were surprisingly active–more active than some folks care for.

The first time I opened the hive top after installing my packages, one of those enterprising little rascals flew into my right nostril and stung me. I cavorted and windmilled in ways my alarmed children had never seen. Also, I cried. If you can get stung in the nostril and not cry, feel free to consider yourself my better. I don’t think you can do it. There were four or five other stings on that first day, but the direct hit to the nostril was by far the most memorable.

The next day my upper lip had swelled like a prizefighter’s. I congratulated myself that I had survived the worst bee sting I was likely ever to get. Later events would prove me to be wrong on that count.

I am a forgiving man, and I bore my bees no ill will; the principal offender was dead in any case. The bees had a lot of work ahead of them: they needed to “draw comb” before they could start storing honey, and that would require a lot of energy. So even though it was May and the nectar was plentiful, I installed a hive-top feeder made from an aluminum turkey pan to help them along, regularly filling it with a syrup of sugar and water that I mixed in a five-gallon bucket. You may be surprised to know that it only takes a few days for a hive of bees to empty a turkey pan.

The bees began to do what bees do. They zoomed out of the hive and zoomed back in with pouches of pollen tucked behind their back legs. On the frames they began building those precise hexagons that almost look too perfect to be natural. As often as I could, I sat on the patio and watched the bees come and go. Most days I found an excuse to open the hive and have a look inside. It seems cliched to speak of their busyness, but the impression is unavoidable. Bees look like they know exactly what needs to be done, and they are on it. Watching honeybees quickly became one of the great pleasures of my life.

A couple of weeks into my beekeeping career, I left to spend a month at a boys’ camp. I left the bees in the care of the house sitter. My nostril healed. I missed my bees—less than I missed my girls, but more than I missed my dog. I thought about them every day and assumed they were thinking about me. I texted the house sitter for reports on the bees, and he assured me that they were doing fine. My leaving them for a month, I figured, was the best thing that could happen to them. They could establish their hive in peace, without my taking the lid off every day and bothering them.

The whole drive back from camp, I envisioned a happy reunion with my bees. I could hardly wait to pull the frames and see what my little colonists had accomplished in my absence. Would there be comb drawn on every frame? Would the queen be laying eggs? Would there be honey?

We didn’t even have the camp trunks out of the car before I was at the hive. If the bees were as glad to see me as I was to see them, I figured, there would be no need for any veil and gloves. I opened the hive and saw the bees busily attending to the matters at hand. And, yes, they did seem glad to see me. Inspired by a strong sense of my oneness with nature, I began to pull one of the frames out for a little peek-a-loo. Within one second I found myself in a cloud of bees that sounded to me exactly like the buzz-roar of the bee truck. One of the bees stung me squarely in the left temple. Reeling, I dropped the frame back into the hive, which caused a whole new commotion. Within minutes, the swelling from my stung temple produced a pretty impressive black eye. It really, really hurt.

I believe in facing one’s fears, getting back on the horse. So the next day I returned to the hive–suited up this time. When it comes to bees, however, I discovered one problem with facing one’s fears: bees smell fear. It whips them into a frenzy. When I opened the hive, it was as if I were a pork chop and they were a pack of 5000 hungry dogs. They covered me up. But what did I care? I had my veil. I had my goatskin gloves.

Apparently, the gloves that Andrew gave me were some kind of gag gift. Four bees stung me through the gloves. Through the gloves! One of those four stings got infected. My middle finger looked like a thumb, only bright purple. When I went to the Kroger Minute Clinic for medical attention, the nurse practitioner looked at my black eye and purple finger and said, “Wait–you’re saying that you have these bees on purpose?”

My black eye healed. The infection cleared up (thanks to a course of antibiotics). I left the bees to their own devices for a while. We left for another two weeks of travel. I brought a couple of beekeeping books to read at the beach, but I didn’t open them. The wounds were too fresh.

A couple of Sundays ago, I finally ventured back to the hive. I suited up, removed the top, and pulled a couple of frames. The bees were much calmer this time. Actually, they were more than calm. They seemed listless, even aimless. The only thing sadder than a bee with no sense of purpose is 5000 bees with no sense of purpose.

There were very few eggs or larvae in the hive. But there were hive beetles. An experienced beekeeper like me knows how much heartache hive beetles can cause. I immediately went to YouTube to find out how to make hive beetle traps.

But it wouldn’t be necessary. My opening the hive, it seems, was the last straw for the honeybees. I was still looking at YouTube when my son said, “Look! The bees!” My lethargic honeybees had come to swarming life. They streamed out of the hive and formed a bee tornado. They looked like the bees you’d see tormenting a bear in an old Warner Brothers cartoon. They were still swarming when we left for church that morning. I told my family to get a good look at them, for it would be the last we would ever see of our bees.

When we got back from church, I opened the hive. Five or ten bees crawled around the frames, looking confused and lost. They were far outnumbered by the beetles, who seemed glad to have the place to themselves.

I was consoled by the fact that the absconding bees left behind two frames of capped honey–a good three to five pounds, probably. But when I crushed it out of the wax, it wasn’t even honey. It was straight sugar syrup. The bees had taken my sugar syrup from the feeder and deposited it directly into the combs where other, un-fed bees would have put honey.

It was their final insult: “So long, sucker–and you can keep your sugar syrup.”

Still and all, I hope they’re happy. I hope they have found a hollow tree beside a blooming field of clover. I hope they are busily drawing new comb and filling it with nectar they have had to work a little harder for. I hope they find purpose in their work. And I hope they know I meant well.

Jonathan Rogers is the author of The Terrible Speed of Mercy, one of the finest biographies of Flannery O’Connor we've ever read. His other books include the Wilderking Trilogy–The Bark of the Bog Owl, The Secret of the Swamp King, and The Way of the Wilderking–as well as The World According to Narnia and a biography of Saint Patrick. He has spent most of his adult life in Nashville, Tennessee, where he and his wife Lou Alice are raising a houseful of robustious children.


  1. Julie Silander

    Jonathan – As you may have suspected, the bees have relocated to the Queen City and are settling in nicely. Really, who can blame them? (I’m happy to discuss visitation privileges.)

  2. Leslie Sheridan

    This was fantastic – and sad. 🙁 And stinkin’ hilarious! I was giggling at your pain – I can’t seem to help but find that kind of thing funny. I’m a terrible person.

    We hope to have bees one day – your lessons shared will be put to good use!

  3. Sherry

    I like a good story about conquering the obstacles of life as much as the next guy, but this, this was a good dose of reality that I’m sure I’ll think back on when I need a little pick-me-up … and I’ll smile.

  4. Drew

    So what I hear you saying is that my own dreams of beekeeping will quite possibly end in misery. Dang it, I’m gonna try anyway.

  5. Kelly Windus

    Thank you for sharing your introduction to beekeeping. I hate that you had to endure the stings and not get to reap the rewards of honey harvesting. Don’t give up on beekeeping!
    We’ve had bees for five years now and enjoy them a lot. I never get stung! (haha just kidding I have but thankfully not anywhere on my head). I have heard of bees going up noses though. Do find a group of beekeepers they are the salt of the earth – I thoroughly enjoy our monthly meetings.

  6. Africa Schaumann

    I know some people who view everything as a test. You either pass or fail and if you fail, it is a direct reflection on your worth as person. No room for lessons learned. I appreciate the positive perspective here, taking this experience as just that: an experience, and finding the hilarity in it. And not giving up! Hopefully next time around your gloves will hold up.

  7. Loren Warnemuende

    I remember when I taught creative writing we looked at how good life-stories always have things that aren’t going perfectly. A lovely, uneventful picnic is nice to experience, but a story to share? Not really. And so, I suppose, it is with bees. I feel your pain, but I’m glad you had this experience so you could write about it, thus giving all of us a dose of reality…and a good laugh for the afternoon.

    And I’m glad you’re going to dive in again and try it next year 🙂 .

  8. Lou Alice Rogers

    If only Jonathan had met the Master in Julie’s Keeper of the Bees he could have been saved! I might have to read it out loud to him before he gets the buzz next spring.

  9. Richard B.

    That was hilarious!!! I hope your next attempt won’t be so full of stings! I got started with bees last May (with one hive, which is a mistake in itself…get at least two!), and am up to four hives because I couldn’t quit getting bees… I plan on getting nine more packages next year. If all you want are a couple of hives, go with nucleus colonies! They are a little more expensive to begin with, but they start a LOT stronger and you’ll often get honey in the first year. It also sounds like you got an aggressive batch of bees…go with a different supplier. Good luck! I promise when you get rolling, you’ll love beekeeping. =-)

  10. applehillcottage

    I’m going to hide this post from my husband, who is more reluctant than I am to get bees. He has said either bees or chickens, but not both…
    We still have another year before we move to the country and have to decide, but I am following blogs about both. Umm, this wasn’t one of them; but I must say, I don’t like being stung. Maybe the chickens are winning…

  11. Jan McTier

    I have often wondered why anyone would want to be a beekeeper. You have not helped me to find an answer. Sorry to laugh at your pain, my dear.

  12. Gary Fawcett

    Wow that is a great story, sounds like you might have not given the bees enough space to expand, hence the swarm.

    Its quite unusual for bees to swarm in the first season (well in New Zealand anyway).

    I hope you do finally read those beekeeping books and try again next season Jonathan.

    Perhaps follow along with our blog and podcast for some beekeeping tips, we are heading into Spring down in New Zealand. So our season is just starting.

    Please don’t give up…Gary

  13. Aimee

    I read this aloud to my four children this afternoon, and the twelve year old managed to spew applesauce across my computer screen, in her fit of laughter (right around the time your middle finger become a thumb).

    I’d love to hear this read aloud by you Jonathon, having heard your voice at Hutchmoot. Podcast, pete?

    It was also a great chance to talk to the kids about choices in writing. They are getting the tpyical “what did you do this summer” writing assignments, so we talked about what made this great storytelling. Thanks for sharing.

  14. Jonathan Rogers


    Aimee, it gives me great pleasure to think that I may have offered help and succor to young writers faced with the “What I did this summer” assignment.

    A podcast wouldn’t be a bad idea. I’d be up for it. One challenge is the fact that I find it hard not to laugh at my own jokes. We tried to do a podcast of me reading the story about my cousin getting pantsed at junior high football practice, but I couldn’t quit laughing at crucial moments, and I don’t think the podcast ever saw the light of day.

  15. Gary Fawcett

    Hi Jonathan,

    We would be happy to have you as a guest on our beekeeping podcast, to talk about your adventure with the bees?

    If you are keen drop me an email.

    Gary Fawcett

  16. Matthew Benefiel

    Well written Jonathan, sadly I too laughed at your expense; in my defense though you wrote it humoriously. I don’t think I could handle bees, the solitary Ciccada Killer we get in our backyard every year or so scares me silly (and I hear they are pretty harmless). That and coupled with my asthma (not sure if I’m allergic to bees) and my lack of country living I’ll settle for more of your stories. Keep us posted on next year’s adventure!

  17. Hilton Henson

    Hello Jonathan, your dad sent me your article and I enjoyed it very much–it is a hoot! I love to read your writings as you and I both love to find the humor in our adventures don’t we? You may remember the part of my book about playing at my grandmother’s house where she lived with several sisters who all had outlived their husbands–except one old maid. I was playing out front while they gossiped on the front porch and I started to edge closer to a bee hive nearby–which I been told to stay away from. While their attention was diverted to a truck going down the dirt road I decided to run over and give the hive a kick!! I did, and an onery bee flew up my britches leg and stung me where no decent bee would think of stinging anyone. I started screaming and my grandmother came running out and seeing the problem she made me strip down and started rubbing snuff spit on the stung area–all old ladies dipped in those days. Bye!!

  18. Jeff Conrad

    This is hilarious! This really brings back memories. I used to keep bees, and had several mishaps. They get mad if you mow too close to the hive, which you don’t know until you mow too close. Then they attack, and I discovered I had developed an allergy to bee stings as my forearm swelled up like Popeye. The best (worst but funniest) story was when my fellow beekeeper Mike was moving his hive down the street to his new home a block away. He had the hive on a two wheeler, after carefully putting a screen over the entrance, and taping the supers together. He assumed no protective gear necessary. He hit a bump, and the base displaced off the hive ever so slightly. In his words, “The bees poured out of the hive like molten lead.” There were innocent people in the area so he gutted it out as the bees swarmed up his pant leg and stung exposed areas. He and I worked for Kansas Health and Environment, and he looked like he had been stricken by some mega variant of smallpox when he came into work (he came in the same day).

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