And yet, this has been one of the longest years of my life — he died a year ago … which was forever ago. I recall with sharp clarity so much of the frustration of dealing with firsts (taxes, furnace filters, the flooded basement, cooking dinner daily, driving by myself to Atlanta, scary noises.) So many milestones. It seems like this first year of firsts has gone on forever.

Time, like a bungee cord with me dangling at the end, stretches and compresses. When weighted with sadness, time is slowed … pulled long and thin. But sometimes, it goes really fast. Where did the year go so quickly?

In the past year I think I’ve spent more time suspended, dangling at the bottom of the bungee, although sometimes I’ll snap up, or even beyond, equilibrium. The times when I’ve felt “normal” again are so refreshing that I’m practically giddy.

Unlike being attached to a bungee cord, when I do get above the sadness and depression, it isn’t a quick snap. It takes work to not let the darkness nibble around the edges and pull me back down onto the couch. I have to slog forward, knowing there will be stumbles. But, after a year, those are fewer. I recall seeing the pelicans in the Gulf, gazing at clear water and wanting to fly but being held down by the heavy oil on their wings. I can relate. So often in the past year I wanted to get out of the smothering altered-world of grief to where the sun again smiled, but it first required plodding forward through slippery heaviness.

This year of firsts is behind me now, but there’s a huge first this weekend: first-born Jessica weds son-in-law-to-be Travis! Tom’s father and I are walking her down the aisle; her siblings will await her at the alter. This weekend will be another bittersweet memory, but I’m very glad it follows on the heels of the first anniversary of Tom’s death. Its preparation has been a great distraction, and the family and friends coming together for such a happy time in the same locations as his services will help brighten up the sadness that still lingers from commemorating him a year ago. And, this event forced me to clean out the lower garage–a long overdue, memory-laden exercise that not only helped clear my mind and the food-serving area, but netted me a hundred bucks (applied toward wedding reception decor) when I returned things I’ll never, ever use. (Unfortunately, I can’t return his collection of 8,000 bolts, 300 spark plugs, or the ‘chainsaw on a stick’.)

A year ago I was overwhelmed by the neighbors who are also friends, coming together to help us remember and celebrate what was. They’re back (thank goodness!!!) to help us prepare and celebrate what will be when Trav & Jess tie the knot, stringing lights, sweeping the driveway, covering the tables. We all feel Tom’s presence. (His half a million bees also in the backyard are a helpful reminder.)

I’m occasionally lonely in life now, but thanks to the fabulous family and friends who surround me, I’m not alone.

But back to neglect: yes, we have been kind of neglecting this blog all summer. Jess’s wedding is in eleven days, so we’ve been pretty occupied with that. Maybe there’ll be more regular programming after the ceremony. I can’t make any promises, but I do want to say that we’re all happy, healthy, and doing well, and still extremely grateful for your love.

All my love.

-Gigantor

Baby daughter Gigantor (who will always be my baby even though she’s 21) copied me on an email she sent yesterday to the US Government, which read in part:  “I am accepting my invitation to serve as a Beekeeping Extensionist Peace Corps Volunteer in Paraguay, departing September 29th, 2010….”

Wow.

Happiness — the world will become a better place wherever Becca applies her talents, and she’s wanted to do this since she was a little girl.

Trepidation — there are africanized bees in Paraguay.  There are spiders the size of Becca in Paraguay.  Paraguay is a long way away from me.

Bushels of mixed emotions … because her Daddy would be so proud, because of the circumstances that got her to this point (more on that below), because I’m an emotional critter anyway and this huge news comes at a time when there is already plenty of things for which to be emotional!

I was counting them up last night, and within a month, I will:

• commemorate the one-year anniversary of Tommy’s death
• walk my first-born, and first, child down the aisle
• gain a son-in-law and instantly become a grandmother to his daughter Haley (very cool with this, although the “grandma” title spooks me a bit)
• commemorate the 5th anniversary of my mother’s death
• turn 50
• ship my baby off to the Peace Corp for 2+ years

Interwoven in those four weeks I’ll probably also see my favorite college football teams lose, misplace the car keys 30 times, stare at a picture of Tommy, and find a bill (or 7) I should’ve paid months ago … all events that can reduce me to tears … good thing I’m not emotional!  (sarcasm)

I am however crazy. 

“CRAZY” doesn’t begin to describe my life right now, what with the wedding countdown of less than 3 weeks (reception in the backyard, house requiring some tidying up as all the kids are coming in along with friends), the Becca countdown, being in the throes of honey production, and oh yeah, that job I have.  (Really Dawn, I will answer your email!)

If you believe in pennies from heaven, Tommy blessed at least some of the recent craziness with that sign.  Last night I called Tom’s bowling buddy Scotty to talk  bees, and Scotty admitted he wasn’t on top of managing his hive, and accepted my offer to help.

This morning I took my teenage bee team to Scotty’s, and coached in amazement as first-time-with-stinging-insects Maddy went from just wanting to watch (through a protective suit) to brushing off bees from frames of honey, all while the buzzing from about 50,000 bees filled the surrounding muggy air.  Taylor, who helped me rob mine last week, took a sting through her sock but kept on working. 

Halfway into it, when Scotty and I had backed away and were just letting the girls work the hive, they saw a spider and became agitated.  Scott bent over in laughter.  Taylor and Maddy didn’t think anything of being surrounded by bees, but were freaked out a spider!

When we were done, I took off the thick shoes I now wear when working with bees (having been stung earlier this year while wearing sandals.  Yeah, really.  I’m an idiot) and there was a penny in my shoe.  Tommy LOVED-LOVED-LOVED his bees and sharing them with people, and was certainly smiling about seeing those two beautiful teen girls sweating it out in the throes of bees with Scotty and me … and who were enjoying every fascinating second of it.  Finding that unexpected, unexplainable penny IN my shoe has had me smiling all day.

Becca and the Peace Corp:  While she always wanted to do this, her father’s death delayed her from deploying to a position this summer (their requirements.)  The Peace Corp had cautioned her that there are fewer fall deployments, so she’s had a very anxious last few months awaiting an official invitation.  In fact, about 10 days ago her recruiter told her things weren’t looking good for fall … and she was wondering what she’d do with herself until January (next deployment cycle.)  And then, last week they told her a position opened, but they didn’t tell her where.

When she opened the packet that arrived Tuesday, containing the official announcement, it seemed divine intervention that it was to beekeep in Paraguay. 

The blessing of faith, and the exciting future Becca has ahead … and Jessica, who is soon to be Mrs. Travis Steck.  And son Ben, who just finished up a summer internship at Goldman-Sachs in Manhattan.  I have much to shed tears of joy over also.  Good thing I’m not emotional ….

It wasn’t until an hour later, when I lay in bed reading, pinned beneath the soft bedspread by a snoring dog on one side and a purring cat on the other, that the shadow of something-large-in-flight returned … along with the thing making the shadow:  A BAT.

Having grown up in an old farmhouse where bats were a quarterly occurrence, I recognized the erratic flapping, the swift swoop, the slight smack as the creature hit walls in its frantic flight.  Years of training kicked in and I did what my Mom always did; I freaked out.

By my rough calculations, my bedroom is only about 15 feet (and two brick walls) from my neighbor’s bedroom.  You think he would’ve heard my blood-curdling scream.  You think he would’ve answered my frantic phone call.  But no, he slumbered on.

I hate bothering my saintly neighbor across-the-street Wayne for everything, but I had no choice.  I’ve handled many difficult things throughout Tommy’s illness, and conquered many challenges since his death.  A bigger person could’ve dealt with this bat, but I am not (yet) that person.  Yes, I was being very chicken.  I am very comfortable being very chicken.

My hero answered on the third ring.

“Wayne, there’s a bat in my bedroom!!  I’m trapped under the covers–”

“On my way,” replied the Man of the Hour.

“Bring your key,” I yelled into the phone.  “I’m not coming out to unlock the door!”

Shiloh the Watch Dog and Melvin the Formidable Man-Cat were still above the critical bedspread layer, so as I lay under it awaiting Wayne, I hoped they’d handle the invader.  Not a chance.

It was getting rather warm, and I was feeling embarrassingly girlie, so without lifting the cover, I reversed positions and slithered out the bottom of the bed.  My plan was to snake out of the bedroom using the bedspread to protect me.  This was quite difficult as both animals were dead weight lounging on it, but I made it.  Slamming the bedroom door behind me, I could hear the bat chirping about the bedroom. 

I unlocked the door and awaited Wayne.  This wasn’t our first bat — Tommy always battled them with boxes and tennis rackets.  When Wayne pulled up on his white horse, carrying (and yes, this is the truth) a Scooby-Doo butterfly net, I was hugely relieved, thinking he must be SO confident in his abilities that he only needed minor, cartoon weaponry.

I was also hugely relieved that I was wearing decent pajamas … as I wasn’t going back in the bedroom.

Wayne cracked open the bedroom door; the bat seemingly rocketed toward him.  This I only know because Wayne told me.  I was hiding in a different bathroom.

Wayne said the bat was about eight feet wide, which shortened Wayne’s bravado to the length of the plastic handle of the butterfly net.  (Not that I’m being critical.)  My hero psyched himself up to enter the bedroom, and I yelled encouraging words through the bathroom door.

Swishing the Scooby-Doo net wildly as he raced in, Wayne opened the bedroom’s outside doors in hopes that the mammal would go out.  That only let about 200 mosquitos in. 

Listening to things banging about (predominantly Wayne), I wondered about the state of my bedroom.  I knew there were some unmentionables lying about, but assumed Wayne’s focus was elsewhere.

I couldn’t hear much from behind the bathroom door, but Wayne would occasionally yell “I got him!” followed several seconds later by “no I don’t!”  I could hear the stress in his voice as he brandished the butterfly net.

“Don’t you have other bedrooms where you can spend the night?” yelled Wayne.

The battle waged on.  Thinking I might be spending the night in the bathroom, I tidied it up, and sorted through the magazine rack.  It was time for the 1993 Sports Illustrated to go, even if I hadn’t read it.  I might be a big chicken, but at least I’m a productive big chicken.

Wayne shouted occasional updates; I shouted occasional encouragement.

Finally Wayne trapped the bat and released it into the night, which released me from the bathroom.  Sleep for we two non-nocturnal creatures seemed appropriate, although we were both a little too hyped up for that.

Wayne wandered back home; I wandered back to bed; Melvin the Man Cat and Shiloh the Watch Dog piled on top of me and began snoring.

I miss Tommy–for the discussions about our kids, what to put in the flowerbeds, when to have dinner … and also for the critical things, like saving me from a bat.

I watched all three of my nieces Saturday, a rare event as oldest niece Amber lives in Florida.  “Watched” is probably the wrong word, as my eyes were closed most of the time they were here.  You see, in addition to three nieces, I had two ear infections, one very sore throat, and about six headaches.  I dozed off on the couch for a couple of hours while Amber kept her younger cousins very busy.  I’m not sure busy doing what … but now that I think about it, I’d better check my chocolate ice cream stash.

As I think so often, I wish Tommy could’ve been here for Triple Niece Day.  He loved torturing the nieces with tickling and teasing; they loved it as well.  Daughter Gigantor made a couple puppy piles of nieces in his honor; Tommy loved stacking up kids.  They squealed and protested, but not very much … even when Gigantor climbed atop the squirmy giggling pile.

I’ve been rather emotional lately, probably due in part to not feeling well, but perhaps because golly, it’ll soon be August and I’m afraid of mentally reliving last August’s events, and oh yeah, there’s that little emotional crescendo of MY FIRSTBORN BABY’S WEDDING on Labor Day.  (Sigh, smile, and pass the tissues.)

Last night Amber, Gigantor  and I checked our two bee hives at Dad’s.  (Yep, sadly down to just two.  The Notre Dame hive just couldn’t seem to get it going, so I combined it with the U of M hive which is kicking butt.  We’ll see if that carries over to football.  )

For some reason, Dad LOVES to sit in his lawnchair below and watch us work the hives on his barn roof.  Still under the weather, I sat there with him while Gigantor and Amber did a thorough hive check.  Last night that consisted of taking apart the three stories of a thriving hive and affirming they still have a queen bee, and that she was laying lots of eggs.  That hive must have about 50,000 bees now, and every single one of them was not pleased.

Because of geography, cousins Becca and Amber haven’t spent that much time together, but they bonded over an unusual common interest in bees.  There was towering Gigantor in a (very warm) bee suit, accompanied by her shorter cousin also in a (very warm) bee suit, atop a very warm roof, surrounded by annoyed bees.  The picture below is of Amber and several hundred of her new friends.  A picture is worth a thousand words, but I wish I had a video that captured their laughter, their “ooooh” and “aaaahhhs”, and future scientist Amber’s billion insightful questions. 

As Dad and I sat in the setting sun, listening to their laughter intermingled with griping about how sweaty they were (when we could hear them over the buzzing  bees), Dad commented “Your Mother would’ve liked to have seen this.”

I of course got teary at that.  Maybe it was the tears in my eyes, but I’m fairly certain Dad did also.

My Mom was a beekeeper, and she would’ve loved seeing her granddaughters work so smoothly together through the formidable challenge of assessing an annoyed, thriving hive.

It’s odd how a hobby she loved has sprinkled down two generations.  None of us kids had any interest in beekeeping growing up.  As an adult I initially had no interest either — I resentfully handled the scary stingers only at Tommy’s pleading the spring he was first fighting cancer … only to become enthralled with everything about these winged wonders.

Watching Gigantor and 14-year-old Amber handling thousands of bees with confidence, acute interest and smiles (even though they both got stung) made my heart smile.  Dad and I loved it; Mom would’ve loved it; Tommy would’ve loved that his hobby is such a focal activity for strenthening the family connections.

Hip Hooray!

“Up,” they said, “we’re coming to your place for the 4th of July weekend …”

I protested.  While the Schoolcraft parade and fireworks are spectacular for a small village in SW Michigan, they’d be coming from Chicago … and I suspect things there are somewhat grander.  Besides, my daughter’s wedding reception is in the backyard this Labor Day; I have work to do.

“We’re not coming for 4th of July festivities,” explained Dana, “we’re coming to help get your place ready for the upcoming nuptials.  And besides, Kevin is sort of afraid of fireworks.”

The last part of that is somewhat understandable (rolls eyes) … I mean, I’ve heard of dogs who are afraid of fireworks anyway.  The first part of that?  Not so understandable!  Friends do amazing, wonderful things for friends, but spending a SWELTERING holiday weekend in my garage?  I didn’t even want to do that and it is my garage!

Nonetheless, setting a new standard for friendship sacrifice, Dana, Kevin and their two teenage boys showed up Saturday morning, before it got too hot (rolling eyes again.  It was in the low 90s — both temperature and humidity level.) 

We got to work.  I was relegated to the kitchen to make blueberry buckle to keep us fueled (a bigger challenge than I thought — four were insufficient), while the woodpile consuming 5% of the future wedding reception space was waltzed to the other side of my yard.

Work continued on other things until the heat nearly took us down, and we then took down all the lunch meat … but we’d earned it.

In preparation for their visit, I’d not only purchased 45 pounds of salami and turkey (OK, maybe a slight exaggeration), but I’d made a honey-do list.  This was at Kevin’s insistence, who said to think of me as a husband for the weekend.  When I showed it to him after lunch he did what I’m used to a husband doing; he napped on the couch.

Upon awakening, Kevin really did play the role of the husband.  I’ve always been a fairly modern, independent woman, but doggone it, there are things for which a man is needed … like putting up tackboards (a two-person job, and it helps when you’re male and are born knowing the distance between studs in the wall), and fixing the three leaking faucets that had foiled all my attempts thus far.  (Kevin once apprenticed as a plumber.)

I was especially thrilled with this latter item, but not nearly as thrilled as Kevin was.  He boasted about it to Dana, who sighed “if only he’d do that at home…”

“We” have two garages, one that is huge and cavernous where multiple boats / mowers / cars could reside, and a normal two-vehicle one.  I say “we” because the huge one was Tom’s; I never really went into it.  Now that he’s gone, it—and its four lawn mowers (only one works), its piles of miscellaneous hardware, its unidentifiable pieces of things and its hose parts collection (over 30, still in packages)–have become my albatross.

One of the greatest gifts Kevin gave me was sorting through the contents of “the corner”  with me.

Kevin explained every man has a corner in his garage where he squirrels away things he may some day need — leftover siding, an extra railing or two, the broken rake.  Tom’s “corner” had leaked throughout the garage and was threatening to overflow into the backyard.  Kevin guided me as to what to keep, what to donate, and what to use in the wedding reception bonfire.

While Kevin was functioning as my husband for the weekend, it was not with full spouse privileges.  The only other warm body in my bed each night was Melvin the cat, whose girth does overflow into the backyard.  And, I couldn’t nag Kevin, even when he cut into the third blueberry buckle just before dinner.

We reached the end of the list (Dana and I built a brick garden wall!) about the same time we reached the end of the weekend, and loooooong after the ice-maker had fallen behind on production.  We were all tired, but proud of what was accomplished.

I was especially grateful –  for the manual labor yes, but mainly for the friendship.  Dana and Kevin had known me and Tommy since before we were me and Tommy.  And, this summer is proving to me fairly emotional as I reflect back on a year ago.  The 4th of July ’09 was probably Tommy’s last good day.  He attended a family reunion, bounced around socializing as he loved to do,  and never really got out of bed much after that upon his return … and then a month later climbed into bed for the final time.  Having Kevin and Dana around to reflect on those times, and better times, and to make new memories was awesome.

They claim to feel the same way, and Kevin suggested we have an annual work weekend.  The good-natured, amenable Dana agreed … but wants to have it at their house next year. 

I stuck the novelty-use-only birdhouse in my small garden — the one sandwiched by a sun-soaking driveway and sidewalk (if / when it stops raining in Michigan), the garden that receives little natural shade.

Because it has rained alot in Michigan, the flowers in this small garden are flourishing, as are the weeds.  Last week found me on my knees extracting the latter.  And suddenly, a terrorized wren flew out of the birdhouse, terrorizing me.

I’m not sure why I was so shocked that there would, um, be a bird in the birdhouse.  Perhaps it hadn’t read the novelty-use-only tag?  Hadn’t bird instinct or bird buddies informed it that nesting in a tin box surrounded by concrete is a bad idea?

Maybe I should give the bird more credit though.  Perhaps it wings to the beach during the day when the tin house’s temperature climbs well over 100 degrees (and it isn’t raining) … leaving Mother Nature to keep the eggs warm.

I hope so.  Baked wren isn’t good for anyone involved.

Speaking of bees, my other winged friends in the backyard are doing well.  Of the 10 hives, only 2 are still on the watch list, 2 more have fantastically built up their numbers such that they are just starting to produce honey for we humans, and the rest are well on their way.  Young bee apprentice Taylor joined us Sisters of the Sting last week when a determined guard bee managed to nail her even through protective gloves.  Salute to Taylor, who was right back in bee suit this morning, helping me feed them.

Yes, it is nearly July, and I’m still feeding the bees … increasing amounts.  Area beekeepers have experienced the same thing, because allegedly all the rain keeps washing off the pollen.

I’m “buzzed” because daughter Gigantor is home for a bit, and she’s also been helping with Tommy’s bees — doing the majority of checking the progress of each hive over the last few weeks.

For a while I thought she had what we call “bee fever” — a fascination with our winged friends that makes you visit the hives every chance you get, and contrive excuses for opening them weekly.  But, her real motivation spilled out yesterday, when she confessed she can’t believe the bees haven’t yet made her any honey!!

She looks nothing like Winnie the Pooh, but they have much in common …

Unlike what teenagers do, group dating doesn’t refer to going out with a group of boys / girls.  Nope, in true Bachelorette style, I’m going out with a group of boys … and I do mean boys.  If you added together the ages of my frequent dates — Aaron, Andrew and Sam — their sum total would still be much younger than anyone nearly 50 should date.  Sure, their tender ages require me to drive and pay for everything, but they are worth it.

I’ve been dating the boys weekly for about 8 months now.  It started because Sammy (aka Samster the Hamster) is a “foodie”, and knows a lot about cooking and baking.

Opposites attract, because I do not know much about cooking and baking, although I know a lot about eating.

The Hamster used to come and cook with Tommy, who told Samster that if anything ever happened to him, Sam would need to come and fix food for me.  Shortly after Tommy died, Sam asked when we were going to start cooking together, bless him.

We started last fall, tackling tomato-basil soup.  When apples were ready at my Dad’s farm, Sam and I decided to make applesauce, and took along his little brother Aaron and neighborhood buddy Andrew to help pick.  This activity meant that I had to lift boys and put them in trees, and occasionally help them out a trees (preferable to the way they sometimes exited from trees — by falling).

That was probably our first group date, and it was followed by a second group date of actually making the applesauce, an activity that consisted of Sam washing an apple, tossing it to his brother Aaron located at the other end of the kitchen, and Aaron throwing it to Andrew at the apple peeler, positioned right next to Sam.

It seemed like a rather inefficient way to prepare apples, but Samster assured me it was fine.  And hey, what do I know about cooking?

The boys and I have since cooked many things together – hundreds of cookies, a few batches of honey-squash soup, the notable hotdogs-five-different-ways, a Valentine’s Day dinner for their parents, and spring rolls, under the guidance of my Japanese friend Mariko.

And today, we romantically picked sour cherries and black raspberries together.  While it seemed hot and muggy in the cherry orchard, there must’ve been a strong wind somewhere … because there were cherries often flying by my head, (followed by giggles).

Aaron with a mouthful of black raspberries

The cherries are now in the freezer, awaiting a cold, rainy fall day when the boys and I can attempt a pie under the leadership of Sam.  The black raspberries are now in tummies — they didn’t last very long once removed from the thorny vines.  And, my heart is smiling at yet another successful group date.

Andrew in red, Sam and myself picking black raspberries

I don’t know how long a small herd of preteens will want to hang out with “an ancient neighbor”, I assume at some point I’ll define my “new life” and won’t be delighted about three boys cracking eggs next to the bowl instead of in it and other weekly kitchen oopsies.  They make messes, but they also make me laugh.  I am honored that they tell me about the concerns of their lives; I am amused that they forget I’m an adult and in the room when they talk about pick-up lines and farting … often in the same conversation.  “Cooking Club,” as we call it, is a silver lining in the cloud of Tommy’s death.  And beyond making cookies and hotdogs, we’re also making delicious memories.

Tommy, I wish you could be here to share in them …

“Up,” he said, “how is it going?  You’ve haven’t been posting much lately…”

True — for many reasons.  First, I’ve been incredibly busy.  Daughter Jessica is getting married this Labor Day weekend, and the reception will be a somewhat more casual affair, in my backyard.  Tommy LOVED the backyard, so it is a great way to incorporate him spiritually into this major life event, and — it saves $ as well (which he would also appreciate.)

The backyard has a huge basketball court where we can seat several hundred people.  We know this, as we sat that many there for Tommy’s visitation.  In case of rain, we’ll overflow into the large garage … or at least that’s the plan.  You see, part of why Tommy LOVED the backyard is because it was connected to his man-garage-kingdom, where things like 7 boat propellers (we haven’t had a boat in a decade), almost every issue of Byte Magazine (because you know computer journals from the 80s have relevant information), and tools — in no particular order — reside.  It was going to be hard–both physically and emotionally–to get the garage under control.  The wedding reception gives me motivation (and a timeline) to get it done, but I find myself alternatively crying over or cursing about things as I work through the tangibles of our life together.  I still can’t believe he’s really gone.

Today I found a box of the kids’ stuffed animals next to our first microwave (which was this size of a real oven and weighed twice as much.  No, I have no idea we kept it.)

The box of stuffed animals had unfortunately been found by real animals, so I ended up transferring a beloved floppy tan puppy who has housed a family of mice to the trash, along with a genuine wool bear who is now just a moth-eaten bearskin.  Seeing them brought back wonderful memories of tucking in our babies amongst their required 300 stuffed animals, and I longed for those days.

Going through such things really made me miss Tommy.  Not only could I have used his help , but there is no one else who understands the history and the memories behind what I was tossing, no one to say “remember when?” to who would remember.

That’s just the way it is, and it sucks.

So, part of why I haven’t been posting is who wants to read about how depressed I’ve been?  Grief lately has made me feel like an oil-laden pelican.  I thought I was flying along, and I’m in a place that should be good, but I’m getting dragged down by stuff I don’t understand.  I catch occasional glimpses of clear water, but I often don’t have the energy to drag myself over there.

But, I have a garage to clean out, thank goodness and doggone it.

Daughter Gigantor came home for a few days last week, and, after opening the freezer, gently said:  “Mom, we have to talk.”  Kids these days.  She thinks having 11 pints of peanut butter and chocolate ice cream on standby is a concern.

Tommy LOVED his backyard, and also LOVED going to Meijers.  I’ve been enjoying working in his, er my, backyard lately, but I haven’t gained his love of going to the grocery.  However, I’m going about every other day … mainly because when one needs 50 pounds of sugar a week, it is best to disperse the load over a few trips.  (That’s a heavy load in the grocery bag, especially when topped with a couple pints of ice cream.)

I have this major white crystal habit because of Tommy’s bees.  The books recommend you feed them sugar-water in the spring to help them get off to a good start, and then, as things begin to bloom, they wean themselves off the junk food in exchange for Mother Nature’s more colorful buffet.

But alas, about half my hives haven’t read the books, and are still consuming sugar-water at the rate of 3/4-gallon daily.  (They’d probably devour an entire gallon, but I’m not adding a night feeding to my schedule.)

I thought that the 5 hives devouring so much sugar-water would be doing better than the 5 hives actually working for a living, but they’re expanding at about the same rate.  As I don’t see evidence of how they’re using these calories (built up honeycomb, lots more bees, etc.), I wonder if my fast-food bees are operating a little kool-aid stand for other insects somewhere.

Or maybe they’re just getting ready to help me clean out the garage ….

Rachel will always have a special place in our hearts, a primary reason being that she was the first child our first child ever babysat.  She was in and out of our house those many occasions, usually making us laugh.

When Rachel was about 5, she and Jessica were discussing our dog Fred’s strange coloration and the white furry stripe down his front.

“My Dad has a black furry stripe down his front,” shared Rachel, one of the many things she shared — and probably shouldn’t have — that became a priceless, humorous memory.

Rachel grew up fast, and polite, talented and beautiful as well.  That she grew up beautiful is NOT a surprise … her parents make Ken and Barbie look a bit homely.  And the politeness and talent — I’m sure our firstborn, who babysat Rachel for many years, is hugely responsible for that (just kidding – salute Michelle and Rick!)

Like so many other things, I wish Tommy could be here to see this milestone in the lives of friends and family.  But, his appropriately dressed honey bears are involved in this sweet event.

Congratulations Rachel and family!