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No Time for Fishing
Ed Colby

Doctors keep quitting on me. Two retired, one took an administrative position, another moved to India. Yet another doesn’t accept Medicare. My most recent quitter decided to specialize in vasectomies. I don’t need one. Only the no-Medicare doc bothered to inform me prior to dropping me as a patient.

So I’m continually looking for a doctor. My new one ordered up some tests to help determine which old-man medicines I need.

The diminutive lab tech who drew my blood was all tattooed up and very easy on the eyes behind her COVID mask. She might have been Hmong. We got to talking. Hiking in Texas, she got too close to an Africanized bee colony, taking a dozen stings as she sprinted down the trail and leaped headlong into the river. “Now I’m scared of bees,” she confided.

I told her my little darlings are very gentle and would never chase anyone into the river.

The gal Marilyn and I hosted the backyard barbecue for the Colorado Beekeepers’ Summer meeting. That redhead Tina showed up at the farm a day early to help with the setup. On her last visit from Durango she drove her ’94 Volvo wagon. This time it was an ’88 Dodge Raider.

It looked like a sweet little rig, certainly classier than the wrecked ’98 Saturn or some of the other automotive relics residing at Colby Farm.

Marilyn and I drive beaters, so I didn’t give it a second thought when Tina headed down the road in her Raider to pick up Dr. Juliana Rangel, our meeting speaker, at the Grand Junction airport. The temperature was in the mid-nineties, and Tina later confessed to driving “about 85 with the air conditioner on.”

After she gassed up a mile from the airport, her Raider wouldn’t start, so Dr. Rangel rented a car at the airport, picked up Tina, and drove the two of them to Colby Farm. They both stayed in the idyllic studio behind the house. Tina and I pulled out the orchard sprayer the night before. Not everyone stores an orchard sprayer in their guest house, but for once the place was squeaky clean. I did ask Tina beforehand if she didn’t think Juliana might be more comfortable in a private motel room. She assured me that bee speakers appreciate it when you open up your home and don’t abandon them to a lonely night at the Holiday Inn.

So those girls made it back, but the Raider was still broke down over an hour away in Grand Junction. We were thinking vapor lock, a generally hot-weather condition that can resolve itself after an hour or so. Cousin Hal lives close by, and when he came to the rescue that evening, the Raider started right up.

This is exactly how my beekeeping operation runs. Stuff breaks or wears out or gets left behind, I improvise and life goes on. This is normal. Take today. At one of my high country yards, I dropped off some one-storey hives for comb honey production. I worked for a few hours. The battery on the solar electric bear fence charger wasn’t putting out, so I replaced it with a spare I’d luckily brought along. But when I turned the key in my truck to leave, all I got was a click. I’d neglected to turn off my headlights. I disconnected that battery I’d just hooked up to the fence charger, hauled it over to the truck, and dug out the jumper cables behind the seat. Voila! On the road again.

That darling Cori buys my honey for her restaurant in Silt. I try to return the favor. You scratch my back… The other day a new server took my order. She couldn’t have been nicer. Afterwards on my way back from Paul’s honey house, it hit me – I’d forgotten to leave a tip. This was criminal.

When I returned with dollar bills and an apology, she laughed it off. Stoney was still holding court at his table. He took it all in. “If you’d have stiffed me, I’d have thrown your coffee cup at you!” he declared.

You have to tip everybody these days. There was a mix-up, and it looked like the outdoor toilet might arrive late at the aforementioned backyard barbecue. Felix, a good-natured Chicano dude with knuckle tattoos like in the barrio, came down from Aspen at the 11th hour and set up a charming little commode in the shade of a plum tree. When he picked it up after the weekend, I complimented him on the exceptional service. I was going to give him a jar of honey but somehow got sidetracked. Then he was gone. He left the gate open, just to remind me that “Great service, no tip” doesn’t cut it. Now I have to track him down.

Tina was going to go fishing with me after the meeting but used her car breakdown as an excuse to back out. Maybe that wasn’t the real reason. She admitted she felt swamped by bee projects. I get that. She’s in some ways like me and does her best work when she’s under the gun. I did give her fly casting lessons in the yard. That was as close as we got to the water.

As she headed for home I cautioned her to keep it under 85. But first we made a bet. A certain thing has to happen in the next 12 months, and if it does, or it doesn’t, one of us has to drive to the other’s house and work for a day.

I’ll fix her. When she comes back to pay up, I’ll make her go fishing.