The Hills Are A-Buzz

Random photo from the web

Most of ya'll ( all three of ya) know that last week I played hostess to Miss Nina of Nina Turns 40 . As I am still using a stone-age Canon 35 mm camera and need to get film developed, I have yet to post my pics of gorgeous countryside and our adventures in the Texas Hill country. But, I do have a story.

Between Goldthwaite and San Saba, the fields were sunkissed masses of bright yellow, blue and red wildflowers; more specifically broomweed, bluebonnets and indian paint brushes. Almost more color than the eye could stand. Just around a long curve, we came upon an old white clapboard Baptist church surrounded by bluebonnets, with cows in the distant field. Picturesque deluxe. Norman Rockwell with spurs. Van Gogh in a Stetson. Yeah, that good.

I eased the Buzzard Wagon (see this past post) over onto a small set-off from the highway and parked underneath the cool shade of a huge live oak tree. I rolled my window down to let some fresh air in since we might be a few minutes and the temperature outside was on the low side of 80 degrees. Grabbing our cameras, Nina and I barrel out, excited about the great photographic opportunity and a chance to stretch our legs.

I tromp through the grass to get closer to the fence, so as to avoid getting bob-war in the photo (no, not some man named "Bob", smartass; sure, I know it's "barbed wire", but the proper Lone Star pronunciation is the first.) All caught up in the moment, I quickly plop down on one knee to get that just-so shot..."Mary, Joseph, Jesus"!

Should have checked for stickers first, cause my knee became a human pincushion. Spent a few minutes sopping up the blood and transfering the stickers from my knee to my fingers to my thumbs and back to my knee, all the while trying to keep my camera from banging into the ground and balancing on one foot. They don't call 'em "stickers" for nothin', hun. Hopefully, Nina wasn't taking paparatzy snaps of my predicament. Been checking her blog for a Kodak moment of a big-butted blonde woman looking all the world like some drunken idiot stumbling in loco weeds, blue smoke curling from her hard-set lips. So far, so good. (Actually, our image would have been a great Mount Rushmore addition - two lone women standing on the roadside, windblown locks of long hair, hands shading squenched eyes and looking out over the pasture like some rogue calvary scouts searching for a Comanche scalping party. Call it "Roadtripping Women Viewing Wildflowers".)

Heading back to the car, we pause for a minute to close up cameras and shake off the dust. So quiet, peaceful and warm the afternoon air.

"bzzzz". "Bzzzz". "BZZZZ".

"What's that noise?", I wonder aloud. Nina points nonchalantly up at a low limb of the oak tree, "I think there's a bee hive", she says without a care in the world.

You never saw a 50 year-old woman move so fast, camera flying over her shoulder and causing near strangulation from a nylon neck strap. Jumping into the Expedition, I fire her up, hit that window button, and fling my Canon over to the back seat, simultaneously hollaring for Nina to haul ass inside.

Looking a little taken aback at my extreme reaction, she giggled nervously and said, "They're just bees, are you allergic?"

"Damnation, that would be the least of my worries right now. What if these are killer bees, and we have pissed them off royally by interrupting their springtime picnic?"

I must have looked like a wild woman at that moment, sorta like the Lucy episode where she hitches a ride in Elsa Lancaster's convertible and hears the radio broadcast about an axe murderess. Fortunately, there was nary an axe (nor watercress sandwiches) in the Buzzard Wagon, or Nina might have been tempted to arm herself against the crazy woman frantically spewing gravel and fishtailing back onto Highway 16.

"I thought killer bees were an urban legend?" Nina queried, grasping white-knuckled onto the passenger chicken handle above her head.

"Nope, no tall tale about these nasty little devils , they are the real deal." "Been known to kill a person, pumping venom into a lifeless body for hours just for the sheer hell of it."

After my heart slowed a bit, and I made sure no stray bee was hitchhiking a ride in my half-empty Dr. Pepper can, I turned Jerry Jeff back up on the CD, and we continued our journey to Fredericksburg, karaoke-ing all the way. Good thing we were miles away from the busy hive, 'cause just that sound alone would have been enough to send a Texas killer bee into a stinging frenzy.