Bees

 

In my teens I read a book called Alas Babylon by Pat Frank, in which survivors of a nuclear war suddenly must adapt. One fellow’s bees produce the only sweets and candle wax available in his rural community.

My grandfather was an avid gardener and kept a couple of beehives. I figured, if he could do it, maybe I could, too.

I asked for bees for Christmas. My father went into the basement and began assembling the complicated pieces of the hive, and I had a nice setup, waiting for a package of bees to arrive from the south in the spring.

Our neighbors knew about the project, and when they discovered a huge wild hive swarming in a pine tree near their house, my father and I took the ready hive box and a couple of tools to go harvest the swarm. There wasn’t a lot of time, so I went there in a tank top and running shorts. Flip flops completed the ensemble. My job was to hold the branch as close to the swarm as I could while my father sawed it off of the tree. Then I gently lowered the sticky branch with the football-sized swarm into the new hive. Bees, when they walk on you really tickle. Neither Dad nor I got stung once.

Since we had more bees coming soon, Dad assembled another hive quickly. The new bees were lovely, very docile. On the other hand, once the first, wild hive got established, they were very feisty and aggressive. I loved them both. The sweet, easy bees who made a modest amount of honey were no match for the wild and super productive first catch.