The Music of Bees by Eileen Garvin (most read book in the world TXT) 📕

to hear what I have to say. And anyway, those rules about the agenda are yours. They aren’t written into our bylaws.”

She waved her phone at him and read from the screen. “‘Any member can introduce significant new business at the end of the meeting with verbal notification to the president.’”

Chuck’s frown deepened, and Alice thought of the wizened faces of the dolls her German grandmother once made using dried apples. He waved a hand.

“Fine, Ms. Holtzman. I’ll add it on at the end. Please be ready with your commentary. We don’t want to waste people’s time,” he said, spitting his t’s.

“Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to get started,” he said, striding away.

Alice rolled her eyes at Jake, and the two of them sat near the front. Chuck thumped his fist on the podium to call the meeting to order and worked through the agenda with an almost military precision. Approval of last month’s minutes. Discussion of a club motto. Plans for the Fourth of July float. Alice checked her phone and glanced toward the door. She saw Stan Hinatsu slip in the back. He scanned the room and nodded when he saw her.

The meeting dragged on as Chuck exhausted the discussion of the parade float beyond the tolerance of even the most patient. People were getting restless, and a few older members had already left, scraping their chairs back and talking loudly as they went.

Finally, Chuck said, “Okay. That’s all for the official agenda. I have had a request to open the floor to new business.”

He glared at Alice and stalked off to the side of the room.

Alice stood, took out her notebook, and walked behind the podium. She waved a hand at the room.

“Um, hi, everybody. Most of you know me. I’m Alice Holtzman. I’ll make this quick, but I know you are going to want to hear what I have to say.”

Her voice quavered, and she glanced down at her notes. Her hands shook, and she balled them into fists.

“I’ve been a member of the bee club for nine years, and I currently have twenty-four hives in the south valley.”

People had begun standing and talking as they moved to leave. Alice raised her voice to be heard.

“Yesterday, following a routine inspection, I found that five of my hives were dead. They were the five oldest of the twenty-four.”

Chuck was putting his notes in his bag, rustling his papers loudly.

“The five most robust hives,” Alice said. Her voice dropped.

Five hives. What was she saying? She saw Jake glancing around the room. Conversations grew louder. Chuck guffawed at something the guy next to him said. They weren’t listening. What did it matter? Five of her hives were dead. How are your bees, Auntie? Ronnie had asked. It’s your fault, Ron said. Bud Ryan was her late husband. She was Alice Island. Then she heard her mother’s voice, impatient and snappish in her head.

“Alice Marina Holtzman! Stand up straight and stop mumbling!”

Alice came back to herself. Then it was her own voice she heard.

“Hey! You guys in the back! I have the floor. So either get out or sit down and be quiet!”

The room fell silent. Chuck Sauer sat. Those who had been clustered in the hallway drifted in to stand in the back, their arms crossed.

“Thank you,” Alice said. She closed her notebook and came out from behind the podium. Her voice was steady.

“Five of my hives died overnight. Two others are ailing. They were strong, healthy hives. I’m almost positive it was the result of pesticide drift from Doug Ransom’s orchard.”

Mutters rose, and she put up her hands.

“Now, Doug is a friend of mine. He’s been really good about working with me—timing his spraying dates with low wind or east wind, and it has worked out fine. He sprayed on Monday, which was windless, so it should have been okay. Only this year, Doug used a new product on his trees. It was a SupraGro sample given to him as a free demo.”

The room was utterly silent now. Other orchardists shifted in their chairs, looking at each other.

“I’m sure Doug doesn’t know this, but SupraGro’s pesticides have been linked to large-scale hive devastation in Nebraska, North Dakota, and Northern California, as well as far-reaching destruction of watersheds and riparian systems. I’m having my dead hives tested at the extension service for residue, and I’m certain we will find SupraGro neonicotinoids in there.”

“Chin up, dearie,” Al’s voice said. “They’re listening.”

Alice pulled her shoulders back and lifted her gaze.

“In the meantime, I propose that the Hood River County Beekeeping Association request a temporary ban on the use of SupraGro in the Hood River Valley until we determine if it is harmful to local bee populations. Can I get a second?”

A hand shot up at the side of the room.

“I second!” a man called. “Mr. President, can we get a vote, please?”

Everyone started talking at once. Chuck stood and tried to call the room to order, but voices continued to rise.

“Be quiet!” he yelled, and banged on the table with his clipboard.

The room settled to a murmur.

“Now,” Chuck growled through his mustache, glaring at Alice, “since we’ve had a motion and a second, we are obligated by our bylaws to have a discussion. I know that some of you want to get home. Anyone who leaves now is free to do so, but remember you will forfeit your right to vote on the issue. If you need to go, go now,” he said.

Nobody left. Chairs creaked. Chuck sighed, sat down, and waved a hand.

“The issue is officially open for discussion,” he said. “One at a time, please. And state your name.”

Many people rose to speak. The room was full of old men, and old men have strong opinions. Some of them were worried that the county would impose regulations on them if they rocked the boat. Some of them had received free samples from SupraGro. Of course, they didn’t want to hurt their bees, but they made a living