Bumblebee Stew
©2004 by Melinda Long

Who, in their right mind, would eat anything made from a bumblebee? Well, I did, or at least that’s what I thought I was eating. When I was about five or six years old, my family lived in Spartanburg, S.C. We were only a few miles away from my maternal grandparents’ big, old, white farmhouse, so we visited there frequently. We often spent weekends there and during the summer, we sometimes stayed all week long. I have year-round memories of that glorious place, but my most vivid memories seem to come from the springs and summers. Springtime was when I first tasted bumblebee stew.

Visiting Grandma and Grandpa Huskey was like taking a little vacation, every time we went. Of course there were my grandparents: Grandma, sweet, frail and quiet as a whisper, and Grandpa, tall, strong, and teasing, always teasing. “I can’t find anywhere to sit!” I would whine. My grandfather’s reply would be, “Then sit down on your fist and rear back on your thumb.” He had an answer for everything.

I loved them both, fiercely, but I could never get used to some of their habits. They were farmers. They went to bed at 7:00PM and got up before five in the morning every day. Springtime meant planting time. Early in the spring, they would work the soil until it was fine, rich, and crumbly. Then, they would plant potatoes, then peas, dropping them into the ground, one green orb at a time. Other vegetables, like okra, green beans and my favorite, squash, would follow. I was too young to help, but I would sit on the bank, which was covered with huge, pale, purple violets and watch.

My Aunt Alice, Uncle Clyde, and my four cousins, all older than me, lived in the house with Grandma and Grandpa. There was no bathroom there until I was much older. We used the outhouse when we needed to go, and baths were taken in a big galvanized washtub. Water was pumped in from the well and heated. My cousins, my brother, and I slept in the upstairs bedrooms, which were actually in the attic. Once, my brother went to put on his pajamas, which had been lying on the bed, and suddenly flew down the stairs screaming and slapping at his legs. Several wasps had started building a nest in his pants and they didn’t like the intrusion. I had never seen my brother move so fast.

In the spring, the yard was flooded with bumblebees. I was afraid of them and ran screaming whenever one was near. One day while we played kick-the-can and went hiding all over the yard and in the barn loft, one of the little black and yellow rascals buzzed right in my face. I screeched and went crying to my cousins, Jessie and Judy. They comforted me but my boy cousins, Kenneth and David, saw an opportunity. “Don’t worry,” they told me, “we’re gettin’ rid of those bumblebees anyway.”

I was intrigued. “How?”

“Mama’s in there right now cookin’ up a pot of bumblebee stew.” Kenneth told me.

“Kenneth, stop teasin’ her right now.” Jessie told him. She was always the one to come to my defense.

“That’s right,” David added, ignoring his older sister. “We’re havin’ it for supper tonight.”

Doubtfully, I looked at Judy. She cut her eyes at the boys but said nothing. I ran inside to find my aunt stirring a pot of milky-looking stuff filled with chunky, black things. Bumblebees! It was true. I ran out of the house without noticing the small, empty oyster can on the counter.

Later that evening, we sat down to a bowl of bumblebee stew and crackers. My aunt didn’t understand why I picked so at my food, and my cousins just wouldn’t stop giggling. Finally, Judy couldn’t take anymore and confessed to the prank. My aunt tried to fuss, but just laughed instead.

I never lived down that bumblebee stew episode. Since then, my aunt, my uncle and my grandparents have all passed away. There are no more spring and summer delights in that old, white, house for my own children to enjoy. But to this very day, whenever I see my cousins, the subject of bumblebee stew usually pops up. Maybe that’s why I never cared for bumblebees or oyster stew.