When I put a bee suit on I look calm and composed. But my insides are squirming and it feels like my stomach is flipping over like a steak hot on the griddle, sizzling and simmering painfully with each somersault. My first memory of stinging winged insects is stepping on a rock, that turned out to be a hive while backpacking in the Sierras with my family. I was stung all over, but I remember vividly my swollen lip that kept me from chewing the already unappetizing dehydrated backcountry food for the rest of the trip. As I grew older I became more familiar with the different types of stinging insects that came alive every summer in California. So familiar that my Little League baseball coach coined my nickname Sting, more for my record number of swollen arms and feet that season, than base hits or RBI’s. Even as an adult I found myself submerged in the safety of a swimming pool, stealing gulps of air and anxiously waiting for an angry pack of hornets to disperse on my last vacation to Mexico. It should have been common sense not to dig up the coconut tree those irritable hornets called home. So I was expecting the worst when 4 new hives arrived for the Garden and I (being the official beekeeper of the UP Garden) was put in charge of leading a group of apprentices through their first (and my first) hive installation.