Worker bees

Sandra’s favourite movie was a Robin Williams film, entitled “What Dreams may Come”.  It had been badly received by the critics at the time of its release and despite its sombre beauty never achieved acclaim.  Its subject matter was death and focussed on the suicide in particular.  Sandra’s husband, John, refused to watch the film with her.  He loved ‘the funnies’ as he called them.

“Movies should make you laugh, not cry!” He'd claimed. 

Sandra remembered the scene in the movie where her husband had dismissed the film and refused to watch any more.  Robin Williams and his wife had two children and in one tragic car accident both children were killed.  It was after that memorable scene John announced his preference for comedy and had retired to his workshop, beside the garage, to continue working on his beehives boxes.  Sandra sat alone, tissues at hand, sobbing while the film ran on.  Robin Williams dealt with the bereavement by mentally sealing the whole business up in a box and putting it away.  His wife could not bear the loss and had a complete mental breakdown ended only by her taking her own life.  Her husband John had stuck his head through the living room door and asked if she wanted a cup of tea.  Seeing her tear stained face he asked,

“Who else has died?”

When Sandra tried to explain, he interrupted her with,

“On second thoughts don't tell me, life is grim enough without fictional tragedies messing with my head.” He left to make the tea.

Sandra sat glued to the unfolding tale of sorrow alone.  When tea and biscuits arrived from the kitchen she'd thanked her husband and told him,

“Now Robin Williams has been killed while trying to help an injured person.”

John muttered,

“Let me get this straight.  Their only children are killed, and then his wife commits suicide.  Now, you tell me he’s dead!  Sandra why would anyone watch such a depressing film.  I'll tell you now; there'll be no happy ending to this one.  You’ll spend the whole evening crying into those tissues.”

With this ominous pronouncement John had retreated to his almost finished bee box.  Glowing in soft freshly sawn, sweet smelling wood he sanded the last remaining rough edges contentedly.

Sandra continued to watch the film caught up in its imagery and haunting beauty.  It touched her in ways she couldn't put into words.  In the film, Robin travels to hell to try and rescue his wife.  In this version of the afterlife, those who commit suicide go to a terrible part of hell.  In this place they forget all they love and even who they are.  He manages through his deep love to rescue her and the film ends with the whole family reunited in the next life.  After the traumatic film she joined John in the workshop needing a debriefing from the film.  John looked at her distraught face and asked,

“Why do you do it to yourself?”

Sandra tried to explain,

“It somehow touches my heart and makes me realise that life is much more than just this.”  She held her arms out to everything around them.

John continued to sand the edges of his box evenly and queried,

“Don’t you think suicide is an awfully depressing business to dwell on, never mind losing one’s kids?  I’d like to think life is much more than all that”,

Sandra nodded, “I know what you mean. It’s too close to home after Henry isn't it?”

She broke off, unsure where to go with the mention of John’s cousin.  John sighed,

“I'll never understand why he jumped, a lovely man, what a waste!”

Sandra stood closer and rubbed his shoulder.  John continued,

“If only he’d spoken to me about what was going on.  I never knew about the debt.  Losing his job must have been the last straw.  But why didn't he ask for help.  We all thought the world of him.  I’d have lent him some, we could have done something.”

Sandra pointed out,

“Most people hide the pain they carry, it’s the way they cope.  Do you know in our knitting circle last week every single person admitted they'd thought, at some stage in their life, of ending it!”

John was shocked, “Bloody hell!”

Sandra continued,

“Many said the reason they didn't was because there was someone or something that made the difference.  One lady said she felt like she was hanging off the edge of a waterfall and it seemed easier to just let go.  But her mother had got her through and that love had been her lifeline.  John coughed,

“Perhaps, I wasn't there enough for Henry.  We laughed a lot together and joked around.  But was there even an opportunity for him to tell me….” 

John shook his head and wiped his hand across his face, wiping the thoughts away.

“Henry loved your company, John.  He looked up to you, it wasn’t that.  His life was unravelling.”

John answered,

“You know Henry told me that around 8000,000 people commit suicide every year.  It was the time of the articles about the French Telecom building in Paris having had their 24th suicide in 18 months, do you remember?  There was a discussion in the pub and Henry had read a lot of stuff about it.  How could I have been so stupid not to see where he was going in his head?”  

He sadly shook his head from side to side.

Sandra responded,

“Perhaps life is more tenuous than we all like to think.  But you weren't to know.  I like to think most of us have lifelines that prevent us getting on those ledges.”

John asked, “Like what?”

Sandra sat beside him on the work stool and held his hand examining the calluses on his palms. 

“Lifelines like people we love, or have loved.  Moments of sweetness that make everything bearable.  Even the memory of your aunt Emma feels like a lifeline to me!”

John nodded,

“You're right she was special.  She used to have these huge family gatherings with roast lamb dinners around her big table.  I loved being with someone whose heart was that big.  Always a real privilege to be with her and learn to be a better person.  It was her kindness and gentleness that shaped the home.  It always felt a place of sanctuary, full of love.  She never forgot my birthday.  She really listened, I mean really listened, not just waited for a chance to speak about herself. ”

Sandra smiled and added,

“I can still smell her soda farls on the hob and taste her pancakes with honey!”

John squeezed her hand and said,

“You know worker bees do a lot more than just make honey. They keep the hive at exactly the right temperature. If it is too hot, they collect water and deposit it around the hive, then fan air through with their wings cooling it by evaporation. If it is too cold, they cluster together to generate body heat. They are the ones who gather the pollen, which feeds everyone else in the hive.  Without them there would be no crop pollination and almost all our own food supply is dependent on them. They keep us all alive in so many ways.  They clean, defend, and repair the hive. They feed the queen, and the drones.  When responsible for the larva they will check a single larva 1,300 times a day.  You know there are people who are like the worker bees and I reckon Aunt Emma was one of those. All of us are poorer and more vulnerable without them.” 

Pictures speak louder than words

I once was looking after a nephew of mine.  With a bit of luck he is not reading this and so will not recognise himself.  There was a large bunch of people in a meeting at the university and my nephew was the only child, so was bored out of his mind.  I had a book to write in and a pen so for a while he was happy to draw things on one page.  Then, when he got tired of that I drew the only two things I can draw an elephant and a pig.  See below for my incredible artwork. 

However, even this brilliance began to bore him.  So, on impulse on a blank piece of paper in the book I wrote poo.  His face was shocked and when I pushed the pen in his direction he very reluctantly scribbled pee.  Then I wrote bastard and his face became a picture.  He thought long and hard then giggled and wrote shit.  I took the page and hid what I was writing from him.  By now he was hooked and could not wait to pull the book away and read what I had scribbled.  His hand flew to his mouth and he gasped as he saw I had written the dreaded F word.  He could not believe it and covered it with his hand so no one else might see it.  But then with a pen that was pressed deep in the paper he wrote in capital large letters FUCK.  I took the book and wrote the same word even bigger.  He could not wait to pull the book back and wrote FUCKING BASTARDS across the whole open page in the largest letters he could manage.  I was surprised this was a boy who did not curse.  What had I unleashed?   This continued for a whole half hour with every curse word we could spell and a few he could not.  Talk about a catharsis.  We both looked in horror at the open page covered with these filthy words.  I whispered that I had better stick the two pages together later so no one else could see what these pages contained.  Later we used glue stick to accomplish this.  Once it was all sealed the only things visible was the pig and the elephant, we had drawn earlier on the preceding page.  

I have that book and the sealed page to this day.  My nephew is now all grown up and thankfully a normal healthy young man despite his mischievous and naughty aunt’s tricks. But just sometimes, when life gets on top of either of us and we want to curse most dreadfully and loudly, scream at the unfairness of things, we just draw a pig or an elephant and the other knows exactly what we would really like to write.  Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words.