By Josephine Marcotty Star Tribune (Minneapolis).
Marla Spivak sat on the curb outside an emergency room in Arizona nearly four decades ago holding a jar with a lone honeybee buzzing around inside.
She was 22, and on her way to a summer job with a renowned bee researcher.
She had no idea what she wanted to do with her life, only that she desperately wanted to understand those mysterious creatures who were somehow better than people at making a society.
But a year earlier she had almost died after being repeatedly stung.
So with a friend at her side to call for help if she needed it, and the doors of the emergency room at her back, she pressed the bee to her arm to find out if she was, as she feared, fatally allergic to its sting.
It was one of many times in her life that Spivak would rely on her fierce, or foolish, courage to propel her along a slightly eccentric path to becoming one of the country's leading champions for bees.
She's now 59, a nationally known University of Minnesota professor of entomology and a 2010 recipient of a MacArthur Foundation fellowship, a genius grant.
She bred a line of bees that can heal sick hives, discovered that bees collect tree resin to self-medicate, and launched a team of experts known as the Bee Squad to help other Minnesotans succeed with hives of their own.
Now she is close to achieving her holy grail, a new $6 million lab to study the insects that are crucial to a third of the nation's food supply.
Her mission, though, has changed considerably since she contemplated her fate inside that glass jar. She is still entranced by bees, more than ever. Now she wants to save them.
As an acrimonious debate about pesticides and their impact on bees swirls around her, Spivak's strategy is to stick to an objective and disciplined scientific line.
At the public talks she gives two or three times a week in Minnesota and elsewhere, her message is utterly pragmatic: Plant flowers, she says. Don't use insecticides any more than is absolutely necessary.
That nuanced advice does not always endear her to some who have staked out different ground in the national fight.
"We cannot solve the current bee crisis by planting our way out of it with flowers," said Steve Ellis, a Minnesota beekeeper.
He's one of several who have sued the federal government over its regulation of neonicotinoids, a breakthrough compound that has become the most widely used insecticide in the world but is now implicated by many scientists in a dramatic decline of bees and other insects. "We have to stop poisoning the bees," Ellis said. "Everything else is window dressing."
Spivak, a small, reserved woman whose jeans are often decorated with gunk from her hives, takes the moderate approach for a reason.
For most of her life her focus has been narrow, bees and beekeepers. Somehow it's all become much bigger in the public's mind, that saving the bees can help repair the human relationship with nature and how we grow our food.
Sitting in an office just off her dark and cluttered lab, she is still clearly stunned by how, unexpectedly, the bees gave her power, too, the genius grant, the recent surge of funders for her dream lab, the 1.7 million people who have watched her TED talk on YouTube. With an impatient wave of her hand, she pushes it all aside.
"But it's not about me," she said. "If the bees grab me out of thin air, if I'm a conduit for something, I have to do it right."
It was, in fact, a book that grabbed her out of thin air.
She stumbled on it in the library while a freshman with a wide open mind at an environmental college in Arizona. "Bees Ways," it's called, written by in 1948 by a hobby beekeeper who introduced her to the extraordinarily complex society inside the hive.
"Each bee instinctively knows that she is only one atom in a great cooperative whole, and she behaves accordingly," the author wrote.
Spivak was hooked. After that, she spent much of her time caring for bees, including one colony that inexplicably attacked her one day when she opened a hive.
She was attending school in California and working on a farm to make money. Though she'd been stung before, this was different; she was stung "many, many, many times," she said, and it almost killed her.
Later, she realized it was an overload of venom, not an allergic reaction. But when nothing happened on the day she sat with a bee outside the hospital in Arizona, she stood up and with a "huge sense of relief," went off to meet the scientist who would set her on her course for life.
Science was her way into the hive, the tool she could use to ask the bees questions and get answers, but she didn't set out to work for a university.
"I was really anti-academic," she said. She traveled for a year in South America, where she fell in love with a man from a primitive village in the high jungle of Peru, and in another leap of faith, married him.
She landed a job with a researcher studying Africanized bees in a mango grove in Venezuela. Those bees were spreading across the world and he was trying to figure out what made them so successful and how to stop them. But they were dangerously aggressive and would attack en masse at the slightest provocation.
"That was the peril," said Mark Winston, now a professor at Simon Fraser University. But Spivak was calm and competent, "not one of these ivory tower researchers that has never had her head inside a beehive," he said.
She was fascinated by his research, and convinced she could do it better. "I kept thinking, 'the bees are not going to answer you.' "
That conviction propelled her into graduate school in Kansas. And when she became pregnant, it carried her right through the prevailing assumption at the time that she had to choose between having a child and pursuing an academic career.
She can laugh about it now. "Just give me a barrier," she said.
She made it through graduate school but her marriage disintegrated. She filed for divorce just before leaving for Costa Rica with her 3-year-old son to do research on Africanized bees for her graduate thesis.
Gary Reuter remembers the sharp young woman who came to interview for the bee researcher job at the University of Minnesota in 1992. He was on the search committee, which was deeply impressed that a non-Minnesotan wore winter boots to an interview in January.
Later, after she hired him as a technician, handyman and research partner, she told him she had just forgotten to bring her shoes that day.
Spivak had promised herself never to live in a cold climate or a big city, and though a scientist, she still considered herself anti-academic. But she needed the job. And the University of Minnesota was the leading bee research center in the country's largest honey producing region.
Part of her job was to help commercial beekeepers. Their hives were being decimated by an invasive, disease-carrying parasite called the Varroa mite that had swept through the country's colonies starting in the 1980s.
She was horrified by beekeepers' rising use of "icky" insecticides that killed the mites but also harmed bees. She found herself lambasting them for being too quick to use chemicals, and warned they were creating resistance in the mites.
"We are setting this up for the mites to thrive, and they will win," she told them.