The buzzing in my ear,
I hear it loud and clear,
Do you not my dear,
You must be deaf I fear.
Just a short summation, and an explanation, to a mysterious sensation, here goes….
And then after a hard days labour, I finally sat down for a minute, just beneath my favourite spot, right close to the atelier, as I call it, sort of cornerwise, where I can see most anything of importance.
I sort of drifted off for a minute, and in the midst of silence, I hear this drone, a deep heavy whirring sound, sort of like the helicopters at the near airport.
As I follow the sound upwards, to the gable of the garage, (atelier) I was certain the highest decibels emanated from there.
Strange I thought I see nothing there, but the black plastic birdhouse I had put there ten years ago. It hadn’t been occupied for a while, actually it was the first year it remained empty of a brood of the usual sparrows. Again more carefully I looked, I see nothing, but still only hear the sound.
I now focus on possibilities, concerned about this undefined noise, was it something mechanical that was in labour of breaking down, but I thought there is nothing up there, except for the single light and an old radio to annoy the noisy neighbours. Gad I thought what the hell.
My imagination spurred my fear of something amiss, an overheating motor, some sort of fan, did I forget something, and I best check this out real close. First I shut of all running things I could think of, the circulating water pump in the bird bath, (Roman bath) the koi won’t mind for a minute, the fan in the studio, (atelier) in short all little running things that were.
No fan, no noise from any in-house contraptions the fountain quiet, still I hear this loud drone.
What have I missed, perplexed by all this, I relent and drag the stepladder up from the woodshed, thinking all the while as best I could which at my age can become a shore in itself, we’ll see I thought, I place the ladder.
Weary of the task ahead, and before I would climb up there, one more last thing, I called Grace, my wife, that is.
You hear anything I said, yes she says the neighbours lawnmower, no I said, listen, right up there, near the gable, No she says there is nothing, just the mower next door. I always use her fine attuned senses, when it comes to smell, sound, or taste, for mine have somewhat diminished over the years, this usually eases my concerns over some things I can’t readily identify. But hell what now, the sound was still there; at least I was hearing it. I made the effort to climb a bit unsteady, but I now wanted to know I wasn’t dreaming all this, (and to prove her wrong of course).
Now just before all this, as it was, I had a good glass of the best Madeira, that had barely settled in my bones, precipitated this all was of spiritual yearning and an inquisitive altercation between mind and soul. Actually the fact was I lacked transportation to get some wine for the wife, and this old forgotten half full demijohn, easily presented a solution.
Being that it was there forgotten for seven years, God knows what if anything had brewed over all this time, and not wanting to poison the wife, I tried it first.
The broken cork came off easy enough, one finger in the opening the other hand holding a large glass, soon enough I see the golden liquid pouring out. Yes it was golden amber, no not red as when it was first made this long ago, the sun and cold had done it’s job, it had oxidized I think, now a first ginger sip, and viola, another deeper nip, a whiff, another sip, my I thought this is great stuff, the senses kicked into overdrive, wow, another sip, two more, I held it the glass to the sun, what inviting colour, toasting the big orb, I yelled, Grace you have to try this, come on out, a real connoisseur the wife, ( a wino), now she would put her all into it, a smile, I’ll have some of this she said. That’s not the stuff you made seven years ago, the long forgotten demijohn, sure I said, it is. Never mind going to the store, this is better than the cheap sherry they sell, you bet I said, this is Sherry they make like in Portugal, $30.00 a bottle. A bit later after the third glass I think, all this buzzing, Grace was happy sipping in her room, watching TV.
Now then where were we, I was up the ladder, a bit unsteady, sort of between heaven and earth, sort of in mid flight I thought. One more step, one more and I’ll see, I’ll be there, and speaking of flight, wings I see, tiny wings, with an amber undercarriage, like that glass of sherry down there. I couldn’t believe it, there is a four prop job running full gear, giving it all it’s got, nearly supersonic. Grace I yelled, you turkey, come here and see the lawnmower, have a look o deaf one.
I have to admit this creature a bumblebee, of the sort I admired, this creature sitting there at the birdhouse entrance, on a bit of old birds nests leftovers, this tiny little thing, was beating it’s wings with all it had, the buzzing sound, the entrance, like a guitar opening, amplified its sound.
I couldn’t help it of course I had to give Grace a hard time, look here I said, the lawnmower sound, come on up and see, what is it, a little bumblebee, with a twinge of satisfaction I pointed.
You are nuts, and she tippled back to her room, she doesn’t like to be wrong. I sort of satisfied to have solved the problem, scratched my head, and mused, of all things to be had by a bumblebee. Being safe in my chair again, I couldn’t help but laugh out loud, this bit of detective work deserves a reward, and so another glass of sherry passed my lips, and being now totally relaxed, a state where I do my best thinking, a penny finally dropped, no I thought, it’s not calling its mate, it’s beating its wings furiously to keep the place cool for it’s brut, I need to mention it was 29 degrees, a hot and humid day.
Such effort, such attentive parenting, wow I loved this sweet creature even more now, between it, and the love of bumblebees, my heart looked to helping it somehow, but what could I possibly do, a flash of Aha, a drill and 3/8 drill bit,
an unsteady flight up the ladder and a couple of holes here and there, soon the box would cool down and be downright breezy.
Now little fella, I talked to it, this should cool you down, shouldn’t it.
Now, did I ever tell of the time, I build a pond for some injured lonesome damselfly I had picked off the sidewalk, na, I didn’t did I? Well for good reason, they got this Royal Sanatorium down the street; we do not want to make them nosy, do we? Besides, I needs to sip the rest of that golden amber liquid, before the sun sets, there is also a buzzing closer to home, sort of an inside track playing, and it’s getting louder by the minute, I am going to have to lay down a while me thinks. Love ya all!