As I write, there's a lovely honey bee bumping into the window in the process of exploring it in search of nectar. How odd -- up on the third floor with nothing brightly colored or anything -- but on a related note, that is, in explanation of the need to explore everywhere for nectar, I saw fireweed blossoming from the rotted top of an old piling (from railroad a bazillion years ago) in the lake. That bee will find it, I'm sure.

I've always been attached to honey bees -- keeping hives has always seemed wonderful to me (except so many bee diseases now -- better in Hawai'i where no bee diseases). At The Chattery I had customers I called "my bee people." Mrs. BeePeople had ms, and she had inherited some hives from her father. He'd neglected them, though, and the bees had become smaller and smaller, according to her. Mr. BeePerson took over and the bees thrived.

Then I did bee-sting therapy for ms. Three times a week. The most I had at one time was 68 stings. I would throw-up and get very ill. There were positive things that happened -- but I found the good to be slight and short-lived, whereas the bad ruined my life for the six months or so I did it. Still, I gave it a try. As I remember, the theory is that the stings cause the body to release a natural form of steroids. Think that's right. Anyway, I suffered no lasting harm, and perhaps or perhaps not a bit of lasting good. I really think not, though. I think it works better for arthritis -- maybe it cures monkeypox virus, too, who knows.