Bees are always around. And I don’t mean the kind that stings when their territory is invaded. I mean the word. Bees.

Just tonight the local newspaper announced that a team called the Bees was vying for first place in some sport. I didn’t have the interest to follow up below the headline, but the word itself caught my eye.

I remember when my sons were young. Kevin, the older, was on a Little League team called the Bees. This was before politically correct names became an issue, and everyone at the time thought it was a wimpy team name. No matter, the Bees stung again and again. Kevin’s team did well.

Remembering further back, one day Kevin and I were sitting in our living room reading books together. That is, I was doing the reading aloud, and he was doing the listening. We finished one book, and I said, “What do bees say when they fly backwards?”

I don’t know what precipitated the question. I only know Kevin was perplexed. So I gave the answer: “They say, Zubb, zubb.” There was a moment of silence. Then suddenly Kevin smiled. He understood. Zubb, zubb. It’s buzz, buzz backwards. It was the first “joke” my toddler “got.”

Even today, we laugh about it.

Earl continues to mine the treasures of various boxes from his parents’ home. We’ve stored them for several years, but now we’re intent on going through them and deciding what’s worth saving.

Today we found a birthday card to Earl from his mother, sent when he was celebrating his sixth birthday. It’s a keeper, if you ask me, since Earl is celebrating his seventy-sixth birthday in August. This card could well turn out to be the oldest memory he has of Velma.

We also found a recipe for hush puppies and a news article that Bing Crosby’s first wife, Dixie Lee, was from Tennessee. Who knows what will turn up next?

I do know one thing. Earl’s penchant for clipping items from the paper is genetic; both his father and mother did the same thing. While I can’t tell if it is a dominant or recessive gene, I’m sure Gregor Mendel would agree that Earl’s habit of saving clippings is on his DNA. At least now, I won’t be so frustrated with it.

In his desire to clean our locker, Earl is going through a box of his parents’ memorabilia and deciding what to toss and what to keep. Most of the newspaper articles are not making the cut, but they provide a glimpse of life half a century ago before they land in the wastebasket.

Case in point: An ad for Hillman’s Market in the May 1, 1961 Chicago Sun-Times offers pork chops at fifty-nine cents a pound and strawberries for twenty-nine cents a pint. A one-pound can of coffee is also fifty-nine cents. There is no mention of bottled water for sale or Kalamata olives in bulk or a sushi bar.

Another, undated, article gives a recipe for rhubarb sherbet that serves eight. Whoever submitted it to the Chicago Tribune received five dollars for doing so, but the person’s name is not listed. Anonymity was more popular back then.

And finally, there is a clipping from the society page featuring four photos from various events such as the Henry Horner Chicago Boys Club party and the Lying-In Hospital benefit. Every single woman except one wears a hat. Nowadays hats have gone the way of Hillman’s and the fifty-nine cent pork chop.

There is, however, one constant from that era. Jewel Foods is still around, although its slogan — “Happy Families Shop at Jewel” — has disappeared. Maybe people aren’t so happy any more.

Angela Lansbury reigned supreme in our household during the 1980s when she starred as Jessica Fletcher in “Murder, She Wrote,” on Sunday nights.

Last week I received DVDs of her first three seasons as the mystery writer who solves murder cases in her off time. I smiled and thought, “Hmmm, I wonder what she has in common with my current favorite detective, Brenda Leigh Johnson of ‘The Closer’ played by Kyra Sedgwick.”

At first glance, their differences are more striking. Jessica was never a trained police officer; Brenda certainly is. Jessica’s personal life was settled; she’s widowed and lives in a small town in Maine. Brenda’s personal life is a work in progress often put on hold as she begins a new case. Jessica was in her sixties; Brenda is close to half that age. And I don’t recall Jessica craving a signature food fetish under duress the way Brenda sneaks chocolate.

That said, I see some common characteristics between the two women. Both are products of their television times. Jessica’s era was less graphic in terms of showing the recently deceased; Brenda’s is blunter about blood. Yet each is perceptive about noticing small details that are important to the case. Each often solves the mystery while the men around them fumble. Each woman is a fine actress who has been nominated more than once for an Emmy and a Golden Globe.

I’m not sure what this says about the development of television’s female detectives over the years; there have been others – Cagney and Lacey, Detective Tennison, Veronica Mars, the female halves of Remington Steele and Moonlighting – but none has caught my attention. In all fairness, I never watched male detectives either. “NYPD” and “Hill Street Blues” came and went without my ever seeing a single episode.

So why did I get hooked on “Murder, She Wrote” and then “The Closer” twenty-five years later? In the final analysis, I think the dialogue in Jessica’s and Brenda’s series is part of the attraction. The ensemble casting is another. And finally, the lack of chase scenes. I much prefer a battle of wits than a battle between competing automobile brands.