I purchased a shirt at the last annual meeting of the Illinois State Beekeepers Association to commemorate the
Association’s 120th anniversary. It was a simple, light blue denim work shirt with a small image of a bee embroidered on the left side over the heart. Underneath, it modestly read, “ISBA 1892”. As humble as it is, that shirt is magical. It attracts attention and breaks the ice with strangers every time I wear it.
Many strangers talk to me out of the blue when they see my shirt. They usually ask if ISBA means “Illinois State Bee Association”. “Not Bee,” I gently correct. “Beekeepers. State Beekeepers Association.”
When I bought new tires for my red Prius at Sears, the mechanic saw the ISBA insignia and asked what it meant. When I told him, he reacted with enthusiasm. “Are you really a beekeeper? I have never met a beekeeper before.” I don’t know if I got better service, but he sure was friendly.
His enthusiasm is typical. Many people respond with the single syllable 21st-century expression for approval, “Cool”. Some confide, “I would love to be a beekeeper.” Thanks to my shirt, I know that almost everyone’s grandpa kept bees.
I’ve noticed that my shirt also provides me with helpful credibility. When I wear it, I become an expert. I happened to be wearing my ISBA shirt when I rescued a swarm of bees recently. The crowd stepped back and let me through. “Here comes the beekeeper,” I heard them say. Someone shouted from the crowd, “That ISBA on your shirt means you’re a member of the State Beekeepers, right?” I nodded reassuringly. Only later did I wonder if they mistook me for the Illinois State Beekeeper, a post that is already occupied in Springfield by Steve Chard.
But the most far-flung reaction to my ISBA shirt came from a lawyer. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the insignia and asked, “Illinois State Bar Association?”. I shook my head. I hope he needs my services more than I will ever need his.
View from the Hive 