My grandfather on my mother’s side seemed stern to me at first
But he was short and rather plump and I saw he had a jolly side
He also spoke in short, clipped words that were funny to my ear
But still, he did sometimes seem to have but little time for children

I soon found, thought, that this aloofness was not for lack of love
It was rather for the time that children might demand of him
Time that he might use better in his endless search for knowledge
For he was an intellectual in a town too small and in a day too short of time

But his real saving grace was honey bees, for he kept several hives
Lined up all in a row back behind the barn and far from the city streets
Oh what fun it was when he wore his smock and gloves and netted hat
And puffed great clouds of smoke from a strange device

That smoke quelled the bees so he might steel their honey
Bringing from each hive several narrow boxes, the efforts of a million bees
The combs would next be cut and left to slowly drain their honey
But with devilish grin he would add that children could not wait for that

So he’d cut for us a smaller chunk, wax and all, to sticky up our fingers
As we sucked each cell free of its lovely stuff, and made a lovely mess
It was only natural then that he got his name, we’d call him grandpa bee
And grandma then, to match the theme, would become our honeymom

That fun we had with grandpa bee, though, came to tragic end
He died so young, hardly fifty years of age, his heart they said
So sad, for I had just reached an age at which we might have talked
About the things he loved so dear, of science and of life

But that man, it seems, did remain imbedded in my heart and in my mind
It was a life of science I would pursue as well
After all, I do have a portion of his genes
And, as with him, a search for knowledge would forever drive me on