She really didn’t need a ‘bird and bee’ lesson, but a flower garden had its own plan

Growing a garden is supposed to be peaceful and therapeutic, right? Right? Let’s explore.

Just days ago, I stumbled into a joyful little moment. I was watering my zinnias while trying to avoid disturbing a beautiful black and blue swallowtail butterfly. It was an ideal late morning. The sun was still east, giving me and my fluttering friend some dappled light that was filtering through a nearby tree. We fell into a graceful back and forth dance: you pollinate on that side, while I water on this side, then let’s switch.

As I wielded my watering can, I kept focusing on the whereabouts of the busy butterfly. I didn’t want to scare it away. Nature must be pollinated! My respectful approach seemed to be working. I imagined this winged beauty was appreciative.

Just when I thought life couldn’t get sweeter, ZAP. I felt raging pain on my foot. A bee with a samurai level stinger managed to aim at the underside of my big toe. Monitoring that butterfly above all else turned out to be a huge mistake.

I was wearing chunky slip-on sandals. Maybe not the brightest idea. But they had elevated soles with wide straps, so were perfect for watering flowers on a 99-degree day. I have no idea why or how the bee could have snuck under my foot when my legs and ankles offered so many other stinging options. Plus, the whole time I was gently traipsing on nicely manicured grass adjacent to the flowerbed. I was not recklessly stomping on flowers.

It wasn’t the pinch that hurt, it was the rapid-release venom, which I firmly believe broke the bawdry-brain barrier. The words that shot out of my mouth would have alarmed the FCC. Neighbors might have been in earshot. Not that it would have curbed my newfound bee sting language. This kind of shock and pain could never produce “gosh” or “darn.”

But what was worse, as I flipped off my sandal, I saw the bee still squirming right under my big toe. Again, how? I managed to swat it off, but it left me a parting gift of a stinger that looked like a rose thorn. I am writing this a few days after the incident. My left toe is now swollen, unbendable and blistered. Even taking a Benadryl at night can’t stop the itching. That bee ruined my toe and my sleep.

Plant a garden, they say. It will be rewarding and relaxing, they say.

The funny thing is my two zinnia patches gave me a little stress even before I was stung. Apparently, there’s been this sneaky bird that swoops down the moment some of the most gorgeous flowers reach peak beauty. All summer it’s been plucking every last petal off the best blooms. Nature, man. Avian vandalism has never physically injured me, but it sure stings my spirit. Gosh, darn.

Next summer I might find a more relaxing hobby. Maybe skydiving, or class six whitewater rafting.

And to think this whole rant/situation started with a beautiful black and blue swallowtail gently flapping its wings. I respected its space so much I didn’t see the bee on the grass. Then I suffered a sting. Now I’m limping and applying large bandages on my foot. Even changing my plans.

As for the future, I probably won’t water flowers in sandals or holey Crocs. I might end up wearing combat boots with my skorts. Considering all the doorbell and cellphone cameras out in the wild, who knows if my unfashionable look will be documented? A single screenshot can land me in hurricane force meme fame.

All of this, my friends, is what is known as the butterfly effect.

Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com.