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Last year was the first season my dad and I had with the bee hives. I merely delivered them. But I did buy them in Kentucky and drove them to TN in my trunk. I kept the back seats down so they would stay at a comfortable temperature. You could almost feel their strong, consistent buzz.

There was a dead layer of bees an inch thick in each of the two swarms I bought. I was told that was “normal” by the salesperson. But given the wild location of the bees, in a small clearing at the edge of a forest, wax moths didn’t give them much of a chance for survival. At the end of winter, the hives were empty. They are empty now.

We’re doing it again this year. Hopefully we will get a healthier swarm. If you can buy bees locally, do it. Thousands of bees in a 6″x8″ cage don’t last very long.

“Mister StandStill” appeared one day, across the street from my dad’s restaurant, right in front of the “Town & Country” grocery store. He wore an old fashioned, dark blue men’s hat and dressed a little nicer than the average person in the neighborhood. I never saw him arrive or leave. He was just there. Standing. And he stood there, every day, for years.

What was particularly eerie about Mr. StandStill was that he faced our restaurant when he stood. When I sat at table #6 and did my homework (when there were no customers), he was facing me. His face was not sad. It was blank, expressionless, checked-out. I would look down to do some Algebra and when I looked up, he would be there, across the street, standing and staring blankly. I tried to keep my focus on the Algebra.

“Look Slim, there go Mr. StandStill”, Charles would point out, gestering his arms toward the corner where Mr. Standstill was parked, motionless. Charles Anderson was the ‘cook’ I spent most of my evenings with during my teenage years at the restaurant. “What’s he thinking, Slim? ‘Here I am…standing…I’m gonna stand right here…all day’. What’s wrong with him, Slim?”

I wondered that myself. I felt sorry for him, especially when it rained. One summer when it was particularly hot, rain would have been a blessing. He was drenched with sweat and looked terrible. Nobody was standing in the sun that day, except Mr. Standstill.

As if he couldn’t bear to watch any longer, my dad finally walked across the street and handed Mr. StandStill a giant glass of iced tea. That was the only time anyone ever heard him speak. He looked at my dad and said, “Thank you.”

And one day, just like he had arrived, he was gone. No one really knew why Mr. Standstill stood at the corner of East Chester and Cartmell street. There were rumors, but we all assumed something bad had happened. Something made him drop his basket. My brother heard that he had walked into his house one day to discover his wife and daughter had been murdered. That would certainly cause someone to just stop, and stare. Peace be with you Mister Standstill.