In Chicago, the golden days of September are a time for redoubled committment to spending more time outdoors. The halcyon temperatures and mellowing quality of light, combined with the looming spectre of true autumn and the months of unrelenting cold that lie ahead, invite residents to enjoy meals and conversations al fresco, run errands on foot and take in concerts in the park.
All, though, is not arcadian. Those meals, particularly, are almost inevitably punctuated by peevish squeals of terror heralding the arrival of marauding “bees.”
Indeed, the insects in question are troublesome: landing on uncovered food and drink with impunity, they aren’t particularly inclined to leave once they’ve tasted the ambrosial offerings that constitute the average picnic. If irate picnickers press the issue by brandishing paper plates and rolled newspapers, they won’t hesitate to defend their newfound bounty with a sting. Or four.
That latter ability is perhaps the most acute indication that the prime suspects in a typical picnic raid are not bees at all. In all likelihood, the culprits are actually close cousins to the bees: wasps. Unlike bees, which can sting only once—the process is ultimately fatal to them—wasps can sting multiple times and buzz merrily away (assuming they aren’t crushed by their outraged victims).
Even the most disinterested observer can distinguish them in ways that don’t involve being pumped full of venom, though. While the bees and wasps constitute some 20,000 species each—both groups belong to the order Hymenoptera, which also contains the ants—the insects most likely to be conflated, at least in Chicago, are honey bees (Apis mellifera) and any of several representatives of the wasp genera Vespula (commonly known as yellowjackets).
Examining the pictures above, you can see what causes the confusion. Both yellowjackets and honey bees are somewhat bullet-shaped, striped insects with wings. (Bees are thought by some entomologists to have evolved from predatory wasps.) However, closer examination of both their appearances and behavior reveals some key differences.
Unlike honey bees, which sport a light coat of downy hair—some of which assists in collecting pollen for later consumption by attracting it with static electricity as they sip nectar from flowers—yellowjackets sport a spartan crewcut more suitable to their proclivities for hunting other insects and scavenging. Yellowjackets exhibit further adaptations to their raiding ways: aerodynamic and nipped at the waist, they are perfectly suited to taking down other insects or darting in to grab their share of whatever carrion and waste is on offer. Honey bees, in contrast, have no need of such exacting maneuverability as they bop from flower to flower; this is reflected in their more rounded form, their bodies not tapering to the fighter-jet points of the yellowjacket. So, too, it is reflected in their neighborly absence from your outdoor repast; the human palate craves victuals totally unappetizing to bees.
The next time, then, that one of your lunch companions bolts from the picnic table sounding the bee alarm, you might advise him or her of the true identity of the culprit. And then, once the spread has been safely sealed from prying insects, perhaps invite your companions for a stroll, and, along with the real bees, stop and enjoy the flowers.