Valentine’s Day. Oh goody. I’m thrilled. I’m bee-side myself. That’s sarcasm. Pretty thick, too. Like honey, almost. What’s got my stinger all out of joint?
I’m a bumblebee. Yellow. Black. Buzz buzz, and all that. My name’s Dennis. That was my cousin you killed at that picnic last month. In case you’re interested, George was a dad. No, I know you didn’t know.
Oh well. What’s done is done. My concern at the moment is Valentine’s Day. It’s really something, what Valentine’s Day has become in your hands. Given its origins, I mean. You do know about St. Valentine, I assume. The buzz, I guess you would call it. Clever and all as you are.
In ancient Rome, when Claudius II was Emperor, old Claude there decided young men made better soldiers without children and wives. He decreed it illegal for young men to marry. Family didn’t mean much to Claudius Two, either. Sort of like someone else I know.
Anyway, according to legend, St. Valentine thought the decree was unfair and unjust. You can understand his dismay—who was going to name a day after him now? It was all about him—sound familiar? Stings a bit too, I’ll wager. Well good.
At any rate, St. Valentine defied the decree, and in secret he continued to wed young lovers in love. He did, that is, until Claudius found out, and had him imprisoned. And shackled. And chained. And later beheaded.
So I hope Linda liked the roses you gave her, in honor of that. Or Carol…or Harold…SusanGerald, whatever, I really don’t care…my point is, you gave someone flowers and probably candy, and probably a Valentine’s Day card, and on that card somewhere, probably, there’s a quite handsome fellow who’s yellow and black, a little fuzzy, and just below that, Bee Mine, is printed in some nice, cursive font, and that’s what has my stinger all out of whack.
Bee Mine. It’s everywhere. On candy and cards and bee bean bag toys. You’d think bees were royalty, on Valentine’s Day. Next thing I know, you’ll be minting and printing our image as currency. Like the golden coins made during Claudius’ reign.
He was fifty-six when he died in 270 A.D. Claudius II died from smallpox; not pretty, but still. Fifty-six years was a long life back then. A bee’s lifespan is a month or two, at most.
George had a family to look after, you know. He worked so hard, trying to get the nest ready. He was tired, confused… he wasn’t after your potato salad. Or pie or baked beans. Okay, maybe the pie. Still, that’s no reason—just because he sat for a second on your blueberry galette hardly justifies going all Claude2 on poor George. Especially when you need us to pollinate your posies. Hope Linda liked ‘em. SusanGerald. Whatever.
How proud you must be. Thankfully, this is my last rodeo. I’ve got maybe a month—assuming, of course, you and I never meet—after that, there’s nothing. But there’s no you-know-what.
Bee Mine. It’s everywhere. On candy and cards, coffee mugs and cakes. Bee mine and that other one: love never fails. I have three eyes you don’t. I see colors you can’t. And I'll never see what love did for St. Valentine.