A camera is a useful tool for withdrawal from even the most uncomfortable situations, but this is not an ordinary situation. While I stand a few feet away from my subject, every other spectator has acquired a much safer distance. Even the protection of the lens can’t keep me from shuddering as 20 or so bees crawl around the collar of my shirt. It seems a feeble complaint when beekeeper Arnold Crabtree has more than 20,000 bees on his face and chest.

Today, Arnold performs the “bee beard” at his home in Lithopolis, a stunt that renders many a surrounding spectator motionless. As Arnold attaches a tiny box containing a queen bee to the bottom of his chin, honeybees swarm as if gathering in a hive. They become so numerous that at times it is difficult to tell I am looking at a man. Even from a distance, Arnold’s act is enough to make the majority of the crowd instinctively scratch the back of their necks.  

At the moment, a giant birthday gift bag is used to pile bees onto a piece of poster board in front of Arnold’s face. “Wind’s a bit too much today,” says Arnold’s assistant Jeff Morrow as he works to get the bees from the apiary, the large crate used to house the honeybees, onto Arnold’s face. It is difficult to fathom how Arnold and Jeff do not regard this as a good “beard,” but at his best, Arnold has had upward of 40,000 bees on him at one time. Today, his face, chest and shoulders are covered with honeybees, and this is with only about half of that number present. “Just a servant to the master,” Jeff remarks as he takes a step back to admire.

The title “master” seems deserved after all the time Arnold has put into what was once merely a hobby. Now, in his late 60s, Arnold fondly recalls reading “The Real Book About Bees” in the fourth grade. It was his first memory of feeling a kinship with the insects. Years later, Arnold met beekeeper Okie Hayes, his grandmother’s cousin, who showed him how to manage the insects. Okie’s lessons led Arnold to work with other beekeepers, and an enthusiasm for the practice was born.

It started as a passion satiated only after days spent working full time as a burner and welder in the steel industry. Then, in 1982, Arnold suffered a heart attack, leaving him unable to work. Some people who suffer this kind of trauma opt to sit back and to take it easy. For Arnold, this was just the start. He began to work full time as a beekeeper, turning his hobby into his job. 

Beekeeping is a job that many people find difficult to comprehend. The first thing many of us do when a bee finds its way into our home is scream and run. It is clear Arnold has never had one of these moments. He also makes it a point to mention that bees are an integral part of a happy, healthy environment.  

Despite clearing out and moving away from the scene after performing the stunt, Arnold still has honeybees all over him. “I try to keep from hurting any of  ’em,” he says, cautiously setting the lid down on one of his apiaries. For insects that are swatted so often, it is intriguing to find a man so delicate when handling them. It is clear that he is a close friend to the insect that brings out so much fear in so many people.  

That concern and caution are exactly what brought about the idea of the Lithopolis Honeyfest, where Arnold typically performs his bee beard. Three years before the festival’s inception in 2007, Arnold was selling and advertising his services and products at “The Village,” a farmer’s market in Lithopolis. “The Village” didn’t last very long, closing after about three years. For many this came as a disappointment; for Arnold, this became an opportunity. With the help of Ginger Brenning, an acquaintance from “The Village,” the
Lithopolis Honeyfest was proposed.  “We wanted to do the same as the farmer’s market, but on one day,” Arnold says of the early concept. With a core group of about seven members and a grant from the Ohio Arts Council, the event came to fruition.  

The day came. Insert the old adage about rain on that special day.  But for the Lithopolis Honeyfest, it was a blessing. “That first year, 2,500 people came. I don’t know if we would’ve been prepared for the first year if it hadn’t been raining all around us,” Ginger says. The Honeyfest was a hit even under the worst conditions.

It was at the first fest that Arnold began performing the bee beard. Arnold, armed with a bit of advice from a fellow beekeeper and a trial run to “work out the bugs,” set the stage for the unveiling of what is now his specialty. 

With a fresh festival coming September 12 and another bee beard to perform, Ginger has high hopes. “Last year, the crowd doubled from 2,500 to 5,000 people,” she says. “We’re hoping to do that again this year.” With few other festivals in the nation that even remotely resemble the Lithopolis Honeyfest, it will not have much to compete with for attention.  

As for Arnold, the honeybees have given him a new lease on life. “This is something I’m going to do until the day I die,” he says as he leans back in the chair in his home office. Taking a look at pictures and little trinkets of the bees and animals that imbue the walls of his comfortable country home, it is a statement that is impossible to argue.