The pair had grown up here—graduated, found their first jobs, married, and welcomed their first baby. For almost twenty years, “here” meant a half acre in a tidy suburban hive, fenced from the neighbors and overlooking an open valley.
Their hive was orderly and predictable: symmetrical honeycombs, swept pollen, and young bees buzzing between activities. Neighbors exchanged polite nods for years without learning one another’s names. It was a contained closeness in which everyone knew precisely as much about everyone else as they wished.
Mrs. B occasionally tried a social club, but each one dissolved after a few meetings. Maintaining a gathering required people to know one another more deeply than most of them wanted.
But they were content. Mr. B went to the office, climbed at his gym for a few hours twice a week, went home. Mrs. B would go for a fly around the hive and back, close the door behind her because there was no one to leave it open for.
Then the wind changed. Mr. B’s manager urged him to move closer to the main office in the front yard, warning that remote work was just never going to be the norm everyone thought it would be.
They packed their bags, tiny honey jars, and surprisingly stubborn Pollen & Pine furniture, strapped mini bee into his carrier, and flew north to a new hive beside a sign reading “SE 17th Street.”
This wasn’t new territory for them. Before mini bee had come along, Mr. and Mrs. B would come out here for work or vacation. Living here, of course, was going to be a completely new experience, which they learned as soon as they stepped foot in the new hive and placed their bags down.
As Mrs. B turned to the door of their new cell in the hive, she was interrupted by a chipper, voice behind her. “Why, hello!” she almost jumped out of her setae and threw mini bee into the air. “You must be the new neighbors!” An elder bee and her husband suddenly appeared with a friendly smile with visible curiosity. “Welcome to the neighborhood! You all have arrived at such a good time of year – it just started getting warm out here, the sun’s hitting the hive during the afternoon, and the violas are going to start blooming soon. You must see them; they’ll be gorgeous this time!” She pointed to a little patch of soil near the house.
She held out her hand, “We’re the Stripes.” Mrs. B shook it cordially. Mr. B flew over with an armful of bags to assess the situation. “This is Ned and I’m Patricia.”
“Nice to meet you!” Mrs. B said, then immediately wondered if she sounded too enthusiastic. In fact, she was – the friendliness was surprising but quite frankly a breath of fresh air. Over the next few minutes, they learned that the Stripes were front yard natives, Mr. Stripe was a part-time real estate agent but an engineer before that, Mrs. Stripe enjoyed Broadway productions, and they were invited over for dinner later in the week.
All this, before they even had the chance to walk into their new home. Eventually, Mrs. B was able to turn the key and they stepped inside, then looked at each other. “Wow.” Mr. B said first.
“Yeah, ‘wow’ is right.” said Mrs. B.
And they both meant that as a compliment to their new neighbors.
Over the next few hours as they unloaded their things, the surprises kept coming.
Bees from the surrounding cells flew over to introduce themselves and lend a hand – unpacking fragile goods, reassembling furniture, holding mini bee, bringing over tools to repair parts of their new, cozy little cell, and someone even brought over pollen as a welcome gift.
The surprises continued into the next day, then the week and onward through simple things like welcoming the new family with small housewarming gifts, stopping to ask how they’re acclimating to the new place, or simply being interested in learning about the B family.
It was a new dialect of social language that they had to learn, breaking down the subtleties from backyard language and rebuilding it around the startlingly sincere and open front yard one. They were learning to become part of this hive the best ways they knew how. Mrs. B, having retained some knowledge from a baking group that met twice in one year and then dispersed, saw another young bee family move in, the Hearths, and made them home-cooked honey bread to enjoy while they got settled in. Mr. B, leveraging the charisma built over years of networking, shared his nectar collection with some of the other drones and talked about philosophy and politics. When they would fly outside for a little stroll and fresh air, they wanted to run to their neighbors for once. While the polite nods and smiles were enough, the action of someone caring enough to check in on you from a position of genuine concern and kindness struck a deeper chord.
Even when the days were long, a small cup of tea with a neighbor to chat with was all that was needed to make it better.
As time went on, they became native speakers of front yard culture. Work was work, and home had more characters in it – mini bee grew into a toddler bee, and a new baby bee joined the B family. “Here” now included all of their neighbors who greeted them on morning strolls, often joining in if they were going in the same direction. “Here”, they built patios and shelving together over nectar, celebrated birthday and retirement parties, and supported other bees through life’s rough patches like layoffs and postpartum.
“Here” is where bees spoke a special language of intent, distinct to the hive next to the SE 17th Street sign.
About Author
I have a real job, but I’d rather be a writer. So, I write here for anyone who stops by to read, usually about the things I can’t stop thinking about, with varying degrees of sincerity and sarcasm.
