Ah, the glory of spring! With my honeybees humming and temperatures balmy, life was just a bowl of cherries. Or at least one would think so. The fact is, in April, I was as neurotic as a first-time Mom! A good beekeeper, I was told, should check on their hives at least once a month. Because it seemed impossible to me that the bees could thrive without my intervention, I visited them every day, oftentimes three or more. Again like a new mom, I wanted to witness every waking and sleeping moment. “Leave them alone.” Jimmy would remind me. “Their mother is Nature, not you.” But in my defense, it was like watching tiny gossamer winged fairies, shimmering in the sunlight as they crafted precious works of art. Who could resist? I continued my daily visits, but restricted myself to peering through the looking glass, unless I would see that the feed-dish was nearing empty. Delighted to have a purpose, I would conjure up a batch of sugar syrup, slip into my biohazard gear, and head back to the hive.
From the very beginning I ached for reasons to pop the lid and stick my fingers in the pie. It was the same urge that had overwhelmed me when I visited The Louvre in Paris France long ago as a college student. There had been a serene Monet painting displayed on the wall, and I had been drawn to touch it. I was consumed by this overpowering need to get close to the source and experience the transfer of energy. That particular movement however, got me booted out of the museum. I was viewed as a vandal with no respect for the artist by the indignant Parisian gendarme. I suppose from his narrow minded perspective, I was.
But now, there was no one to misconstrue my intentions or kick me out of my own apiary. I had open access to my bees and I was thrilled to be their guardian. Upon raising the lid and removing some bars I would find the feeder nearly dry, with two or three thirsty workers sucking up the last remaining drops of sweetness. They never seemed disturbed by my presence, it was more like “where have you been?” As I traded the nearly dry tub for a freshly filled one, I noted their gratitude as many took an immediate work-break to line up along the cup’s edges like a tiny team of horses drinking from a trough. Some would nearly stand on their heads to reach the artificial nectar while others gingerly lit on the floating popsicle sticks that served as mini life-rafts in case they accidentally fell into the sticky liquid.
May, continued to highlight the greening landscape. Milkweed and blackberry blossoms were forming in clusters, sunflower and thistle plants were spiking leaves, wildflowers were taking root, and afternoon temperatures climbed into the seventies. The frequent hive visits had increased my observation skills a hundred fold over, which proved very beneficial to my documentation. We had been instructed in class to thoroughly appraise our situation with regards to day, time, weather, hive conditions, action taken, every time we made a sojourn. This notebook would become the record of my successes and failures and help me make better or equally as good decisions in the future. Life in and out of the hive buzzed like a chainsaw in May and my written specifics were clinically detailed. Being a rookie, this was mere fun, I was yet to appreciate it’s true value. My bee population was on the rise and it was with the wide eyes of a child that I would scribble and breathe in the intoxicating, pungent smell of uncapped honey.
By June, I had figured out the best time of day for observation. Forager bees work all day long, beginning their flights early in the morning and continuing past dusk. I discovered that by 10 am, the sun was so aligned with the hive as to shed no glare on the plexiglass. I would sit with my magnifying glass for 30 minutes or more, bewitched by the precise workings of the hive’s internal organs. When an incoming forager reunited with the roiling core, her target was directed through the art of waggle dancing, the smell of pheromones, and intimate touching of antennae by her co-workers. Hurriedly yet with precision, she would scuttle over cells and other busy bees (I believe, stepping with intention on shiftless drones) to efficiently make her deposits. Once her mission had been accomplished, and without dallying, she’d sail off for another load. Spying with the magnifier exposed every hairy bit of pollen on her legs and every determined movement of her body. The hive activity reminded me of the chaos of a circus. There was hustle, bustle and what could have been mistaken for confusion, but in reality, was co-ordination, balance and perfection of performance.
The highlight of these visits though, without a doubt, was Rosie. My observation time never felt completely successful without a glimpse of my queen. I had been warned over and over to not assume she was alive just because she had been spotted a week ago. Queens die: some naturally, some by usurpation and some simply by accident. A mentor in class admitted that once, while checking her hive, she unknowingly dropped the queen and stepped on her. If the queen dies, she must be immediately replaced. So on these warm June days, it was as though Rosie understood my compulsion, for more often than not, she and her court would suddenly appear from between two bee-saturated combs and totter right in front of my augmented eyes. My breath always caught at the sight of her. She would usually be on display for a only a few seconds and then disappear within the ever growing cluster. Sometimes, if I was very lucky, she would remerge as if to say, “Did you see me? I’m giving you a second chance.” And then, just as quickly as she had materialized, she would be swallowed up by the mass of her children.
In what felt like a heartbeat, chilly spring had turned into sultry summer and twenty-seven empty hive bars had morphed into eight fully formed combs of pollen, nectar, honey and brood. My box-o-bees had become a family, while the landscape had changed from gray to green; from vacant to life filled. Shuttering-up the observation window, I would reflect on saucy little Rosie. To her eye, I must have looked like a cyclops with my hand held monocle and nose pressed up against the glass. But instead of cringing at the sight of me, she would reorient her wings as if she were bestowing the Royal Wave to an adoring subject. Her presence was regal, but her attitude wasn’t . “Relax,” I could almost hear her say, “You see that I’m here…. Now leave us alone!”
For The Love of Words 