The Music of Bees Eileen Garvin (best autobiographies to read .TXT) 📖

from the orchards. SupraGro was cheaper, and the science said it was more effective than the pesticides they’d been using. How could they say no to that? Others said they had read that the idea of pesticides hurting bees was a hoax. Some said they should only ban the use on large orchards, not small operations. After the bee club members had spoken, Stan stood.

“My name is Stan Hinatsu. I’m the executive director of the Hood River Watershed Alliance—”

“No nonmembers are allowed to participate in official debate,” Chuck interrupted with a snarl.

Alice stood and waved her phone. “Nonmembers are allowed if they are called as experts by another member. I asked Stan to come,” she said. “The bylaws say—”

“Fine!” Chuck hissed. “Proceed.”

“Thank you,” Stan said.

“. . . Uppity hippy,” someone in the back mumbled, and Stan pretended not to hear.

“Name and affiliation, please,” Chuck said with a sigh.

“My name is Stan Hinatsu. I’m the executive director of the Hood River Watershed Alliance. During the past week I’ve been conferring with other watershed groups and agriculture associations around the West, and I can tell you, unequivocally, that SupraGro is responsible for devastating the bee populations across the western United States.”

He told them about the science behind it, how the extra strength of the SupraGro pesticide was nothing more than a double dose of neonicotinoids.

“I won’t even get into the rest of it. What it does to the watershed and to the salmon,” Stan said.

“. . . Going to want to take out the dams next,” someone grumbled.

Stan waited till it was quiet again.

“Look, I understand that many of you have orchards or your neighbors do. The orchard economy is the lifeblood of this community. This is not an anti-farming issue.”

He paused.

“The most recent data to come out of the University of California shows that in the communities where hives failed, the following spring showed a forty-five percent drop in fruit production due to the absence of local pollinators. In addition, research showed an acceleration in diseased fruit trees and outright tree loss. This is not some left-wing conspiracy. This is information from scientists at the U.S. Department of Agriculture. Here’s all the information we have to date.”

Stan passed photocopies around the room. Voices rose as the members talked among themselves. Stan fielded questions about data and research sources. Most questions were respectful, but one man, sneering, asked if the watershed group saw itself as impartial.

“Absolutely not,” Stan answered. “We are one hundred percent on the side of the wildlife and plant life of the valley and uninterested in supporting big businesses like SupraGro. Thank you for asking.”

The man huffed and sat down. Someone asked Chuck how binding their request could be for the county.

“Legally not binding at all,” Chuck said slowly, and tugged on his mustache. “But in the past, they have offered a two-week period as a courtesy for topics we’d like to research. I imagine we could ask for that while the extension service looks into this.”

Chuck sounded decidedly less grouchy now. He had been a research biologist at Oregon State University before he retired, Alice recalled.

“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve heard enough,” Chuck said. “The science behind this and Ms. Holtzman’s hives seem enough reason to take this issue to the county. I motion that we put it to a vote.”

“I second!” someone yelled.

“All in favor?”

About two-thirds of the hands went up.

“Against?”

Less than one-third rose this time, and some people kept their hands in their laps.

“Motion passed,” Chuck said. He turned to the club secretary, Matt Garcia, and asked him to draft a statement for city council.

“Meeting adjourned!” Chuck hollered, and rose to his feet, gathering his things. He nodded at Alice as he left.

“Thank you, Ms. Holtzman,” he said.

Alice exhaled. It was a start.

Jake grinned at her. “Nice work, Alice. For an old lady, I mean.”

She laughed and stood when she saw Stan approaching.

“Thank you so much for coming, Stan. That was, well, just what we needed.”

“Happy to be here, Alice,” he said. He sat down next to Jake, and Alice realized what a simple courtesy that was.

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Stan,” he said, grasping Jake’s hand.

“I’m Jake,” he said, and smiled. “Alice’s apprentice.”

Alice laughed and shoved her hands into her back pockets. “I think it’s the other way around. Stan, you would not believe what this kid can do.”

Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to see the line of beekeepers waiting to say hello, shake her hand, and thank her. Looking at that queue of friendly faces, well, it felt like some sort of homecoming.

Stan offered to take the hive waste to the extension service for testing.

“I have to meet with Michaels tomorrow anyway,” he said.

So they transferred the bins into his car. He waved as he drove away.

As Alice drove through town on the way home, Jake riffled through the tape collection. He popped in a cassette and Tom Petty’s voice streamed out into the spring evening: “Time to move on. Time to get goin’. What lies ahead, I have no way of knowin’.”

Jake rolled down the window and surfed his hand on the evening breeze.

“Who was that great big guy you were talking to at the door?” he asked.

“Tiny Castañares,” Alice said. “An old friend of my dad’s. And mine,” she added.

Jake looked out the window at their little town flashing past.

“You’ve got nice friends, Alice.”

She nodded, and her heart swelled. She did have nice friends, and remembering that made her see she was coming back to her life. She felt that container inside her. She felt her grief, and around the edges of that grief she felt the rest of her life and everything in it growing like a fine wax comb to buffer her sorrow. She drove south toward the mountain as the sun set over the river and the wind died off. The bees went into their hives, and the people of the valley slept.

19 Into the