Magical Realism With Roots: Grounding the Fantastic in the Familiar in Fiction
Author Elizabeth Bass Parman discusses the intersection of the familiar and the fantastic in magical realism and reveals a lot about bees.
When things around us are so ordinary, sometimes we are oblivious to their existence. A neighbor out for her morning walk, the cicadas whirring in the summer trees, the light shifting in a room as the sun sets—all happen without a nod or glance from any of us. But when things are too unusual, sometimes we can’t comprehend them. Did we hear a wild animal howling? Is that the scent of roses in an office corridor? Could that have been an eagle, and not just a large bird flying over our hiking trail? When the commonplace with the unusual merge, wonderful things can happen.
Bees in June, my sophomore novel, takes place in the fictional small town of Spark, Tennessee, in the summer of 1969. Spark is an ordinary enough place, about an hour outside of Nashville, populated with the type of people sometimes called salt of the earth. Arden is frying up more chicken at the Blue Plate diner, Evangeline is windmilling hairspray over her customer’s fresh beehive at the Curly Q beauty shop, and Darlene is picking out a candy dish at the Emporium second-hand store. Dewey gets the Gazette out every Friday, filled with the town’s latest news, and Shorty Strickland is stocking the drugstore shelves with moon-themed merchandise in anticipation of the historic lunar landing, just a few weeks away. Something else is going on in Spark, though, far from the mundane and straying into the fantastical—Rennie King Hendricks is talking to her bees, and they are talking back.
Bees have rightly been revered in human culture for centuries. They symbolize dedication, hard work, and the power of community. Good luck and prosperity show up when bees do, and they have long been considered a spiritual link between this world and the next. Their honey, beeswax, and propolis are cherished for their curative powers, and the pollination that occurs as a result of their visiting flowers helps feed the world. The mythology surrounding bees is complex and storied, as are the customs associated with them.
One of the most intriguing apian customs is “telling the bees,” rooted in Celtic tradition. Because humans’ very existence is intertwined with the well-being of their charges, beekeepers understand the importance of nurturing that vital relationship. Bees must be kept up-to-date on family happenings in order to maintain their synchronistic relationship with those who care for them.
The most important news to tell the bees centers around death. When a beekeeper passes, the bees must be told, or they will leave their home, cease honey production, or even die themselves. The long-practiced ritual requires the new keeper to knock three times on the roof of each hive and inform the residents of the death of the old keeper, and then reassure the bees that a new keeper has already taken over their care. Additionally, the hives should then be draped in black cloth or ribbon to allow the bees to mourn properly. If the bees feel confident their care will continue, they will stay with the family and everyone’s continued prosperity is ensured.
I first learned of telling the bees from a 1956 newspaper article in the Danville Bee (yes, really) about a swarm of bees who attended their keeper’s funeral in the Berkshire Mountains. When beekeeper John Zepka passed away, thousands of bees gathered at the cemetery to pay their respects to the man who cared so deeply and well for them.
As I researched this enchanting custom of beekeepers sharing family milestones with their bees, I found a 17th-century beekeeping poem, which reads in part: A swarm of bees in June is worth a silver spoon. On that day, Bees in June was born.
Bees in June is a story about dreams, courage, and the quiet magic we carry inside ourselves. Sometimes as sweet as honey, and other times as sharp as a sting, this story follows Rennie Hendricks, a young woman who is mourning the tragic loss of her infant son. Her husband, Tiny, is becoming increasingly violent, while her beloved Uncle Dixon is growing more feeble by the day. She longs for a happy, peaceful life, something that seems as unlikely to her as what’s in the headlines during the summer of 1969—plans for a man to walk on the moon.
Rennie receives help from an unlikely source, her late Aunt Eugenia’s bees. Eugenia came to Spark from Appalachian Kentucky as Dixon’s bride, and brought these special bees with her. Some people called Eugenia a witch, while others knew her as a healer, able to cure an illness when the town’s only doctor could not. The bees have their own POV, acting as a Greek chorus, commenting on the action of the story. It’s not fair to say they meddle in the humans’ lives, but they are not above helping to direct the humans’ paths. With the bees’ guidance and wisdom, along with her Uncle Dixon’s support, Rennie realizes she can accomplish the impossible if she is able to believe in her own magic.
The foundation of the magical realism in my story is the power of the ordinary. Interlaced with the familiar tasks of daily living is the fantastical—a world of bees and magic and hope, bringing light to the darkest places, if only we will look for it. The world is a pretty tough place right now, and we are assaulted with grim news virtually every minute of the day. Bees in June is my effort to assert that the magic of the world is also out there, just as important and real as as any dark headline that makes us weep for humanity.
Check out Elizabeth Bass Parman's Bees in June here:
(WD uses affiliate links)
