Bumblebees and Fishing Poles

Though I was born a Valley Girl, I was transplanted to a remote dairy farm in western Oregon when I was almost five years old.

So what did a kid do for entertainment back then? I had my own agenda which involved first heading to the lookout point on the hill at the end of our drive, since one could see across our valley from this vantage point. I’d find out where our stubborn, dangerous black bull was, and I’d calculate if I had enough time to run to the other side of the pasture that housed him before he spotted me. Once I got to the end of the meadow, I would crawl through the barbed wire fence and head to the creek that split the valley and most times I’d be running with a glass jar and a fishing pole. And I was most always barefoot.

The fishing pole was a fixture by my side in my young Oregonian life. I fished the creek most days, though it took me almost a year to catch my first. Yes, there are several stories about the many that got away, but they are stories for another time.

The jar I carried had a lid with holes punched in it for air. I’d hold the jar in one hand, the lid in another, and sneak up on an unsuspecting bumblebee that happened to be checking out the flowering blackberry bushes. I’d scoop it up into the jar and quickly flop the lid on it and boy would the fireworks fly! I’d get an up close and personal look at these amazing, ticked off little creatures that sometimes were as large as my thumb. After a few minutes of watching their angry buzzing, I’d take pity on them and place the jar on the ground and then use my the tip of my fishing pole to knock it over so that the lid would fall off and the bumblebee could fly away.

Fishing and catching bumble bees were serious summertime fun for me back then, but today I have been speculating about what life would have been like if I hadn’t been transplanted to Oregon and had stayed a Valley Girl instead.

I’d probably not be telling about one of many such memories, like, fer sher…