It was at the 24th X on the calendar, two doors down from the big red circle that the call came. They weren’t coming. My bees weren’t coming was all that I heard, when in fact the message was that they were delayed. Seems that a combination of unusually cool temperatures and multiple storms in Georgia had backlogged delivery. Their arrival had been postponed by two nebulous weeks with actual confirmation date pending. I circled a new number on the calendar which carried me over to the next page and continued to wait. When the second delay call came, I began to panic. It would now be mid May before my vagabonds would make their appearance. A two to three week push back could prove crucial to the new homesteaders who would arrive tired and weak, with no foundation or food reserves. The first nectar flow was already in progress with cherry, pear and dogwood trees surging with new life. Every waiting day was agony as I watched the landscape greening up, knowing my bees were missing it all.

The morning of  “D” day, I was up with the sun. Those of us who had ordered packages were to meet the truck in a parking lot in Chantilly, between eight and nine am. With GPS programed and skipping breakfast, I ardently ventured out. The sun was making every effort to warm the gray, overcast sky as I anxiously bucked traffic.  Following the navigation system to the letter, I pulled into the lot at 7:45. People were already sprinkled around, some waiting in their cars, others gabbing amiably as a flatbed began unloading hundreds of boxes.  “They’re here,” I declared to myself, “My honeybees and Rosie are finally here.” I gazed at the growing stockpiles, wondering which one she was in. Donning a pair of garden gloves, I joined the loitering ranks.

It was organized chaos. Waist-high piles of boot-sized boxes were banded together and stacked haphazardly on the asphalt. Volunteers were directing the crowd with conflicting commands. Some cranky white haired man in overalls seemed to be in charge, although that was certainly open for debate. He yelled out names while arguing with various recipients. “No,” he barked, “says here you only get two packages.”  “They’ll be fine, just take the box.”  “Keep unloading, I don’t have all day.” I stood back, a little freaked out and observed as he fumbled with paperwork and chicken-scratched his way through names and orders. He finally called me. “Vienna James, you here?”

Me and my smily face proceeded gingerly to the head of the line. “Yes,”  I confirmed, “That’s me!”

I rendered my open arms and heart to the pot of gold that was about to be benevolently bestowed on me. But in fact what happened, was that he literally tossed me the box, crossed my name off the list and said “here ya go.”

Refusing to be discouraged, I cradled my babies and grinned at him, “Thank you, I’m so excited! It’s Rosie, I’ve already named my queen Rosie and here she is.” I held up the small crate I had just received like Mufasa presenting Simba in The Lion King. And thinking this gesture might soften his gruff exterior and charm him, I awaited his reply.

“Rosie huh? You’ll be going through Rosie, Rosalind, Rosalita and Rosebud before the year is out.” And then dismissing me, he snapped,  “Thomas Simpson!”

I stepped back a few paces, peering down at my precious cargo and refused to stop smiling. Sadly, there were a few dead bees laying on the floor and some that were wandering around dazed as if they were suffering from a hang over, but the majority were festooned together in the center, buzzing nervously around the queen cage. They had been traveling upwards of 48 hours, sequestered with only the company of a pin-pricked syrup can. I lowered my voice and spoke directly to my queen. “That crabby old man doesn’t believe in us Rosie. He thinks you will die or because of my inexperience, I will accidentally kill you. But he’s wrong. We’re a team. You, me, the workers and even the deadbeat drones.  Ok, we may be starting out behind the eight ball, but nobody could want to succeed more than us. You and me Rosie… Let’s go home.”