My second-born son is a bee afficionado---he knows and will tell you WAY more than you thought you wanted to know. He knows times and temperatures and honey flavors and bee routes and all those magical, wonderful mysteries of the world's first sweetener. I know very little, as I have him right there---my personal Apian Encyclopedia, and mostly the curiosity on that subject doesn't flare up too often.
When I was a very young child, all my friends played "doll" or "school" or various run-and-shout games...I organized counters and dishes and pretend cookstoves and skillets, channeling Miss Marthy right and left, sending this one out to gather grass, that one to pick up acorns from which we separated the tops into little bowls and cups, and another for the best, cleanest mud and sand for ingredients. We would mix and stir and bake, then decorate cakes and pies and cookies beyond the imaginations of Duff and the Charm City squad.
My Mammaw sent everybody home the day she caught us sitting with little bowls in our laps, painstakingly shelling the almost-microscopic little "peas" from the slender hanging pods of her precious cleome bed. We sucked honey-suckle blossoms for the nectar, raided plum thickets and blackberry rambles, held buttercups under our chins, and could not be warned away from the hive-filled wall which adjoined the dining room in her tiny house. Bees had moved into that old clapboard wall years before, and you could see the ins and outs of all the workers, entering and leaving by way of several holes in the siding. The room also held my bed for when I visited, and the hum of the hive was as lulling as a waterfall. All that never-ending activity, carried on for ages out of time, just a bead-board away as I nestled down---there was a gentle soothe to it that no music and no magic machines can convey.
I always wanted the adults to "raid" the honeycomb, but we never did, and when I was a teenager, they tore down the house in order to build my grandparents a new one on the site. I was on a trip with my class, and missed the whole thing!!
I could, however, "charm" a bee into letting me take her back outside, away from the siren-call of the lightbulb at the end of its long ceiling-string. My Grandpa would cup his hand upside down near the frantically-buzzing bee pressing her backside to the lethally-hot bulb, slowly slide it up and between her and the light, close his fist softly, and release her out into the night air.
I was determined to learn to do that, so I practiced every time I went to visit, if there were a bee in the room, sometimes precariously standing on a chair to reach the light. He said, "You just have to think hard how much you love that bee." It worked, and I released several of my own over the years. He could also do that with a wasp, but no way on this earth could I ever love a wasp THAT much.