Tom Sonday

While I’d rather be fighting with him over the temperature at which we set the house thermostat, a small silver lining in the dark cloud of Tom’s death is that I’m in control of the house temperature.  After visiting with two different couples this week, both of whom sputtered and growled about their spouse’s unreasonable setting of the thermostat (in one case, she needed it cooler, in the other case — she saw no need for AC), I’m glad I’m in TOTAL CONTROL of the thermostat.

(Unfortunately, I’m also in total control of the laundry, the yard, the taxes, the vehicle maintenance, etc.)

Like practically all married couples, Tommy and I fought over the right household temperature.  Bless his heart, he never knew what it was.  Air-conditioning is an expensive luxury only to be used when the temperature is around 90 … indoors. 

Speaking of temperature, yesterday I spoke to four 2nd-grade classes about honeybees.   I do “bee outreach” because the world’s food supply is endangered as honeybees mysteriously die, and bee-cause speaking to elementary school students make me a better beekeeper.  You see, even though this is my 3rd year keeping bees, I still occasionally freak out about being in the midst of thousands of stinging insects.  When this happens, I think back to the classroom, being swarmed by seemingly hundreds of hot, sweaty, curious small children …. and I immediately feel better about working with bees.

I’ve spoken to over a dozen classrooms so far, so I thought I’d heard about all the questions by now.  Wrong.

Here’s an excerpt from one of yesterday’s sessions:

“Have you ever been stung by a honeybee before?” (Little girl in a green shirt.)

“Yes, several times,” I reply, and explain why (as it is usually my own fault.)

“Do honeybees do partial or complete metamorphosis?” (Little girl in turquoise shirt.)

Gasp.  (Me.)

“Yes they do.  Next question!”  (Full or complete metamorphosis??!!  If I even learned that was in second grade, I forgot it by third … and haven’t thought of it since then.)

“How do honeybees actually make honey?”  (Larger boy who has obviously eaten alot of it.)

“No one really understands that magic,” I answer.  “Next question.”

“Why are honeybees mysteriously dying?”  (The slender kid who I didn’t think was paying attention.)

“I don’t know,” I answered, again.  So much for a honeybee expert coming to speak to them.

“Have you ever been stung before?” (Different kid.)

“Yes,” I answer, again.

“Did you bring any live bees?” (Large kid with a gleam in his eye.)

I told them no, an answer which relieved most of them, but was very disappointing to a couple of the boys in the back.

“Have you ever been stung by a honeybee before?” (Yes, really — third time, same question.)

In one of the classes, the kids had some knowledge of the various bees in a hive, and their roles.  I affirmed the duties of the queen and the worker bees, and was asked what it is that the drones do.

Drones exist for the limited roll of fertilization … which I wasn’t sure I should explain to second graders.  Fertilization is a very important role, but other than that, they just lounge around the hive, flipping back and forth between sports on TV, drinking beer, spilling snacks on the couch … and undoubtedly — messing with the thermostat.

Like what a mouse once did to my graham crackers, I’ve had melancholy, or sadness, or maybe even depression nibbling at the edges of my psyche lately.   It isn’t enough to toss me into tears or make me curl up in bed, but it (doggone it!) keeps me from fully enjoying what my college prof Dickey Deane said was one of the best things ever:  mid-May until the end of June in Michigan.

I think part of my reflection of late is because these last few weeks have been awesome — flowers, lush grass, a lake warm enough to swim in, spellbinding sunsets only God could paint.  A year ago Tommy and I enjoyed such things together.  He was coming out of the effects of the targeted radiation to his liver, and feeling good.  We were optimistic about our plans for a treasured summer of dinners on the deck, making fun of our 50-pound cat, and watching our bees being busy as … well, bees.

It didn’t work out that way — as faithful readers of this blob know.

Whenever I feel depression nibbling at the edges of my mind, I try to combat it with a few things, like chocolate, naps, doing something fun (which in my mind includes napping and eating chocolate), and counting my blessings.   I have a bazillion blessings, and I want to share a few of them:

The air-conditioner repairperson is here as I write this, which is double good news because my house will (hopefully!) be less than 90+ degrees when he leaves, AND, because I’ll undoubtedly be able to stimulate the economy by writing him a huge check (rolls eyes.)

Three of the bee hives are all ready halfway through manufacturing the amount of honey they need to make for them … meaning perhaps sometime in late June or July, they’ll be working to make Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey.  This is fantastic news, as I’ve started a foundation to sell Tom’s honey and donate all profits to his favorite charities, and well – having some honey to actually sell will be most helpful!

Our friends and neighbors have been AMAZING  in helping me with this bee foundation / the bees in general.  Jon (who hates bees but LOVES their honey) helped me move the hives from the swampy area of the lawn in the spring, and then built several dozen frames.  He also built this magnificent shelf of old barn wood for the honey bears to sit on (y’know, when I actually have some more) at my Dad’s retail roadside produce market (www.coreylakeorchards.com).  While we were delivering said awesome heavy-duty shelf, Jon expressed some concern about the heat the hives on Dad’s roof may endure, and is now working on a design of “hive hutches” to give them dappled sunlight — which is super cool, and will hopefully keep them cool.  All of this is on a volunteer basis in Tom’s memory; thank you Jon!

Tommy’s bud Scotty also donated 20 frames of already drawn out comb from the two hives of his that died.  Bees spend alot of energy making comb before they need to spend alot of energy making honey.  Scott’s bees’ labors will allow Tom’s bees to focus earlier on honey production for Tommy’s charities, thanks Scott (and deceased bees!)

I got to visit Scott’s bees (er, what’s left of them) last week, because he had a hive swarm (see below.)  As I’ve had one hive swarm, Scott called me because I’m, um, experienced? (rolls eyes)

Mine swarmed a quarter mile to a low-hanging bush.  Scott’s swarmed 35 feet — straight up the tree from their hive.  Scott and I are both pushing 50, but were undaunted by climbing a tall tree with narrow limbs, wearing bee suits and carrying a variety of sharp, pointy tools (saws and clippers.)

Our plan was to gently separate the limbs that held the swarm from the tree, and hand them to each other as we tag-team-climbed down the tree.

Make plans; God enjoys a good laugh.  He was REALLY laughing at what happened next …

As a side note, Scott and I were both wearing bee suits just in case something went terribly wrong (how foreshadowing of us.)  Bees are at their most gentle when swarming, so the books say suits are unnecessary unless you do something to really anger the bees (see below.)

Speaking from my experience with one swarm, I said “Scott, remember — that branch is alot heavier than you think.”

Scott ever so gently started to cut the branch.

The branch was alot heavier than we thought.  It took only a slight cut until it snapped off and crashed 35 feet to the ground.  Probably no bees were killed by this unfortunate snap, as they all started flying as the branch fell … I think.  I couldn’t see the branch falling because the air was so thick with bees, and unhappy bees at that.  It sounded like a bevy of motorcycles driving through the tree.

Where’s the video camera when you need one?

The bees regrouped about 50 feet above us, and then took off to build their new hive elsewhere, instead of the convenient, cheerily painted hive we’d prepared for them.  All attempts to find them failed.

Another way I combat the sadness of losing my husband is tending to his bees.  Over the weekend, I went to a beekeeping class by Ross Conrad, renowned bee expert.  He said that when one is standing in the beeyard, holding a frame of thousands of stinging insects in one’s hand, to pause and look around at how fantastic the world looks, because ….

“Beauty is in the eye of the bee holder.” 

Thanks for your continued support and prayers.

In no particular order …

When your neighbor calls and says her dog has a giant fish hook imbedded in his foot and can you help — don’t answer the phone.

Because it is difficult to predict what a caller might say so you blindly answer the phone — should you shortly thereafter find yourself in your neighbor’s house with a freaked out dog flailing about because there’s a giant fish hook attached to a lure with even more fish hooks in his foot, before you do anything else, tape over the exposed, flopping fish hooks.  Otherwise, the dog -lure combination will also ensnare the couch, the carpet, and you.

Becca has awesome friends.  Over a dozen of them spent the night here to attend a local concert, and if they are representative of the youth that will someday run our world, I’m OK with it.  Especially because some of them know how to make cheese!

I’m twice their age, and have no idea how to make cheese.

My in-laws still treat me like a daughter … even though I’m no longer married to their son.  While I didn’t expect anything different, having it affirmed is a grand thing.

Thanks to 3 of Becca’s very curious friends, I now know sort of what it feels like to be a queen bee.  (That’s duct tape all over my suit because it has a tear.)  Oren, Alex, and Dov (L to R below, and who are obviously very strong!) are also very brave.  They helped me go through the 10 hives and assess bee progress.

I have two more hives where the queens are laying just drones.  That sucks, because I’ll have to requeen again, and finding the old queen and smashing her on the new queen’s cage still is traumatic for me.  (See previous post.)

My Dad had an awesome 80th birthday party,

My programmable lawn sprinkling system has 16 zones, all set to go off for varying lengths of time on different days — except for a couple of zones that, when activated, do nothing … that I can find.  Why there is such a complex program (who needs something like that?), and what gets watered on zones 5 & 11 – is something known only to Tom, he took that knowledge to the grave with him.

That my “getting through grief” can be significantly set back when I wander into my bedroom and find my daughter Becca, who looks a lot like Tom, napping in the bed with the curtains drawn, as he did so often a year ago.  All the feelings I thought were sorted through came rushing back, including that dread that some day he wouldn’t be lying there.

That nonetheless I’m getting on with it …

Becca’s graduation, Jess’ engagement and Barack Obama were last week.  This is an update about the bees, for those of you who have asked about what’s going on with my fuzzy little friends.

Last Wednesday 7th-grader Taylor, who used to be afraid of bees, helped me install three hives atop my Dad’s rooftop at Corey Lake Orchards farm market.  If I were a bee, there’s no place I’d rather bee than smack in the middle of a several hundred acre fruit and vegetable farm.

I was so proud of Taylor for overcoming her fear, and bee-coming one with the bees.  It takes a special person to go up on a rooftop with 30,000 stinging insects.  There’s no place to run …

Taylor bravely dumping bees in the U of M hive; go blue!

The bees are there for pollination, making honey, and agrotourism … in that order.  Because of the latter reason though, I couldn’t just put them in boring white hives.  College football loyalties run deep in this area, and last fall, it was interesting to watch which scarfed-in-school-colors honey bears sold the best at Corey Lake Orchards.  (It was Notre Dame.)

Although not quite the right shades as bees like lighter colors, the hives are green for the Spartans, gold for Notre Dame, and blue, for the University of Michigan.

The hives: after bee installation, and bee-fore they've had a chance to calm down and all get inside

Because I’ve written several big checks to U of M over the last several years, I prefer to think of the gold one as actually maize … putting maize and blue together.  It’ll be interesting to see which “school” produces the most honey — updates to come.  (Rumors that I didn’t actually put any bees in the Notre Dame hive are untrue.)

I painted an artistic impression of the Spartan block S on the MSU hive in honor of my sister Beth, manager of Corey Lake Orchards.  If any of you ND fans want to spring for a decal for the ND hive (or the U of M one!) I’ll be happy to decorate it.  Hhhmm, maybe I should sell billboard space on the hives ….

Taylor shows one of her many new friends ...

We’ll check these hives mid next week, to verify that the queens have happily settled in and laying the required 1000-2000 eggs / daily, and that they are predominantly female eggs.  Every once in a while, an improperly fertilized queen comes along, and she lays just drones.  This becomes apparent when you do a hive check, as the honey comb cells, instead of being covered with smooth, similarly sized caps will be covered with irregular, bumpy, larger lids because of the size of the drones.  And, since drones in a hive are absolutely useless except for one minor function (fertilizing some other queen), a hive with only a “drone layer” as queen is headed for certain death as there’s no one to pamper the queen and raise the babies.   Until they eventually starve to death though, that drone-rich hive will be able to answer any sports questions …

In the words of Jane, my bee pimp, “any queen that just produces boys is pointless.”  I liked telling that to bee partner Rose, mother of just four boys. 

We had (had being a key word) a drone layer in one of the hives we installed in my backyard.  I found this when checking those hives last week.  Thus, I ordered a new queen bee, and she arrived yesterday in a tiny cage in an envelope, via the mail (yes, really), along with a few attendants.

As bees are very loyal to their queen (even a useless one), to “requeen” you must find the current queen and smash her against the cage of the new royalty (to expedite their acceptance of her.)  The bees will then happily eat their way toward her (she’s trapped in the cage by a wall of sugar candy.)

There are a few things that really bother bees.  Thunderstorms make them nervous; opening their hive when it is cold, windy and threatening rain makes them quite unhappy; pawing through them to find their queen really sets them off.  Yesterday we had a queen we absolutely needed to get in the hive.  And yesterday, we had all those undesired conditions.

In anticipation of their likely anger, Rose and I lit the bee smoker … about 800 times.  We had combustible materials made specifically for bee smokers, dried leaves and pine needles, pine shavings, 17 feet of crumpled newspaper – and nothing would stay lit or burn.  I’m thinking of using marshmallows as I always manage to light those on fire when I’m around a campfire.

The clouds momentarily parted, and Rose and I frantically worked to get something smoldering in the smoker.

The clouds let go with torrents of rain and earth-trembling booms of thunder (bees can’t hear, it’s the thunder vibrations that bother them).  Rose and I took refuge in my garage.  We wanted to go in the house, but couldn’t, because finally — the smoker was going!

And going and going and going and going.  Billows of smoke rolled out, hanging in the garage, enveloping Rose and myself.

The garage was filled with the pleasant scent of pine needle smoke — meant to be used to calm down the bees.  The bees may have been getting more agitated, but it didn’t matter.  After 30 minutes of sitting in the garage through the steady rain, and inhaling the smoke, Rose and I were quite calm.

A second break in the weather came; Rose and I dashed out and opened the hive.  We searched amongst the thousands of greatly agitated insects for the one who looked a little bit different … so we could kill her for the greater good.

It took longer than we (or they) would’ve liked for us to find her.  It took even longer to get the courage to ”do the deed”, even though it was for the greater good, but we did it, and then introduced the new queen to her subjects.

So … what bee happening?  All those bees are busily gathering pollen, building honeycomb, and raising new worker bees.  Until the next hive check (which the weather may not allow any time soon), we’ll assume they’re busy … as bees.

And meanwhile, Rose and I will practice lighting the smoker.

It was a weekend of tears, but happy tears!

First and foremost, I no longer have any children in college, making me and my checkbook very happy!  Becca graduated at The Big House on Saturday with her engineering degree.  You can see her in the picture; she’s the one in black on the field, toward the left. 

There were alot of people at Bec’s graduation, not ALL of them there for her, oddly enough.  One or two others, oops, maybe several thousand more, accompanied by 80,000 friends and relatives, crashed her event.  It was quite a turnout, even for a U of M graduation, because it turns out that Bec and her classmates weren’t the only important people there, who also included …

… daughter Jessica, and my son-in-law-to-be (!!!!!!) Travis Steck, who became engaged only days before.  Congrats you two!  Here’s a picture of them kissing for the first time … in the Big House … during U of M graduation weekend …  while waiting for commencement to begin … when it was cloudy. I had to put all those qualifiers on it because they kissed oh, maybe 1 or 2 times more throughout the weekend (roll eyes.)

There was other kissing going on as well, because Ben and girlfriend Sloan were occasionally smooching as we waited on the oh-so-comfortable spacious bleachers for Bec’s graduation (and Barack’s speech.)

So sorry Mr. President, but you were second fiddle, I mean third — behind Becca’s graduation and Jess’ engagement.  You seemed to handle it OK.  Nice speech, BTW.

While it was a grand weekend, it was bittersweet.  Tom and I are supposed to be starting our golden years together, and I felt awfully alone at times, sitting between the two lovebird couples that my children are wonderfully part of.  Luckily, Gigantor (aka Becca) scampered up the stadium to give me a big hug.

I’m the really tired one on the right …

I did get plenty of hugs; here I am with Jessica, Gigantor and Sloan (I’m the fat, really tired one on the left.)  Son Ben and future son-in-law Travis aren’t in the picture unfortunately because we’d sent them to the concession stand (approximately wait — over one hour, average price per item  — $400. What else are you going to do while you wait 2+ hours for commencement to commence?)

Lots of tears — yes.  Most of them happy tears.  Jess and Travis’ news came at a great time as we start to emerge from 2+ years of darker chapters of our lives.  It is so wonderful to have something fun and positive to which to look forward.  While Bec’s graduation was something we looked forward to, getting a college degree isn’t easy even when your parents are in the best of health.  The past two years have been really hard to march through at times, and I didn’t have exams hanging over my head.  I suspect she felt more of a sense of relief than a sense of elation.

Tommy’s life has made us all more careful not to take anything for granted, so getting together in itself was a cause for celebration … and having things to celebrate?  Just icing on the cake.

And because I haven’t yet included a picture of Ben, and as long as we’re rolling our eyes, here is that U of M alum, wearing (gasp!) Ohio State red in the Big House, and a bagel on his head (a very expensive bagel.)

No slight intended, Mr. President!  And Go Blue!

I just got a call from Child #3, who was obviously as some sort of U of M social gathering and is “done with college … at this time!”  (Grad school may lurk in her future after a details-still-to-come developing Peace Corp stint.)

We will be celebrating her graduation next Saturday at ‘The Big House.’  Bec’s graduating along with a bazillion others, and oh yeah — President Obama is delivering the commencement address.  Let’s get our priorities straight though — it is ‘Beccabama Weekend’, because it is mainly all about her (although the restriction on my taking knitting needles into the stadium is all about him.)

Her sibs and their significant others are flying in for the weekend, which will be wonderful.  Because of what we went through with Tommy, we’re very close as a family even though we’re geographically dispersed.

ReBecca graduates with an engineering degree; the apple didn’t fall too far from the nerd-parents tree.  Congrats Baby Girl!  That degree from U of M couldn’t have been easy (because unfortunately half your brains came from me) — and especially because of the last two years.

Your Dad and I are VERY proud.

All my love — the Momster

A week ago Jessica, Shiloh and I left Kentucky with 100,000 bees in my all-purpose vehicle, a Pontiac Aztek.  Driving while bee-ing buzzed isn’t something I’d recommend to just anyone, but — we made it home.

The journey was somewhat uneventful, although it had at least one opportunity to be REAL eventful.  It came outside of Louisville, when we stopped for a late breakfast — because weather permitted.

You see, when you have bees in the vehicle, you can’t leave the windows cracked, or you’ll end up with even more bees.  The queen’s scent is so commanding that stray bees flying by may decide to join her, and will just hitchhike a ride outside of her cage.  (Which yes, means they’d be free in the vehicle.)

So fortunately, it was cool enough to leave the vehicle in the shade (without the windows cracked, and with the dog and the bees inside it) while we inhaled breakfast.  We parked at the far end of the parking lot, near a building that looked like it was undergoing construction, although it was mid-morning and there was no one about constructing anything.

When we exited the restaurant, we found a crane extended over the bee-mobile so men could work on the roof, and a man chain-sawing trees down next to it.  Un-bee-knownst to them, those guys were working around a horrific potential bee sting bomb had anything crashed into the vehicle!

Leaving Louisville, Jessica was driving while I pondered appropriate music to play for our winged passengers.  “Let It Be” sprang immediately to mind, along with anything by the BeeGees.  Then I remembered that bees are deaf, so we listened to miscellaneous music in the key of bee.

Several minutes later, Jessica calmly uttered:  “Um, Mom, I see bees.”

Of course she did; there were 100,000 caged behind us.

But, turns out she was referring to the two she could see exploring the back window.  Jessica was not happy about that.

They weren’t either.

I advised Jess that she could pull over and pop the hatch, and I could hopefully shoo them out (before others got in.)

Jessica didn’t particularly like that idea, concerned about where the bees would, er, be — if we did that … other than abandoned beside a major highway far far from their original hive. 

I appreciate my daughter’s soft heart, but frankly, that was those bees’ problem.  I’d always been advised against picking up hitchhikers, and while these hitchhikers had picked us up, it was still disconcerting–although I guess them having a stinger is preferable to them having an ax or a chainsaw.

I shared with Jess that the hitchhiking bees would probably continue to examine the back window, but if not, we could pull over quickly and deal with them.  I also reminded her that we had a secret weapon protecting us from them:  Shiloh the dog.

Like many dogs, Shiloh has eaten a honeybee or two … or maybe three hundred.  (Yes, really–the benefit of being a beekeeper’s dog.)

She’s been stung numerous times, and sported a swollen gum several times, but it doesn’t keep her from snapping at bees or nosing about the hives, which she considers a place where flying treats are stored.

Perhaps it was the low but steady buzzing from the seat behind her, perhaps it was because when she counted the bees in dog years there were actually 700,000 of them.  Whatever the reason, Shiloh was not resting easily as we drove north.  Thus, if a bee flew by her, there was a good chance it would get snapped up — or so I liked to think!

Except for that low but steady buzzing from the back of the bee-mobile, things were relatively peaceful on our drive.  Each stop though, I had to let hitchhiking bees out.  Each stop I’m sure a few more somehow got in.

It was the stop just south of Fort Wayne, when we stopped to stretch our legs and for me to shoo out two bees we’d seen in the back window, that we learned there were actually three of them.  As I gently chased two bees across the popped hatch with a newspaper, a third bee nailed me in the right bicep.  I unfortunately have severe, localized reactions to bee stings, so by the time we got home, I had a bright red, itching, LARGE bicep rivalling Popeye the Sailor Man’s.

Mom was right — I need to bee wary of hitchhikers.

I recently returned from “spring break” — driving south to Hotlanta to visit daughter Jessica, then going with her, her boyfriend Travis and his daughter Haley to a beach cottage in South Carolina for 3 days, and then — the most EXCITING PART OF THE TRIP:  picking up new bees in Kentucky and driving home with them.

The first two legs of the trip (Hotlanta and South Carolina) had laughs and special memories all to their own, but I won’t blog about those. 

I’ll instead chat about the last leg of the trip, or shall I say, the last 600,008 legs of the trip — if you count the legs in the vehicle (100,000 bees, Jessica and myself, and my dog Shiloh.) 

Jess, Shiloh and I left pollen-everywhere Atlanta Monday morning.  Enroute, we made a split second swerve-off-the-freeway decision to visit Rock City.  This is something I will always cherish Jessica for, because:

1. I love rocks and always wanted to visit their city
2. The many times we went by it enroute to vacation, Tommy would NEVER stop (when going on vacation, Tommy was all about the destination, not the journey to get there.  Plus, he thought I already had enough rocks.  (He was wrong.))
3. I was delighted to discover that while Jessica got many of her Dad’s attributes (love of ink pens, math abilities, love of surprises), she did not get his lack of spontaneity, thank goodness.  And, she got some of my love of rocks!

Other than the geode room, the 2nd best part of Rock City for me was the swinging bridge.  Here’s a photo of me and Shiloh, who did NOT love the swinging bridge and is trying desperately to return from whence she came.

In hindsight, I think perhaps Jessica was more than happy to tour Rock City with me because it delayed us getting to Kentucky, where we’d be loading 100,000ish stinging insects in our mini-SUV (the world famous Aztek) and driving them home.  While Jessica had volunteered to do this with me, she was having second, third and fourth doubts about it.  As she’d told a friend in absolute flat monotone that morning, she was “superty-duperty excited.”  Earlier, when I had asked her to remind me to get water for the dog when we got the bees, she said “if you remind me to take a tranquilizer.”

Two years ago, when I was worried about Tommy ever getting out of the hospital alive, Tommy was instead worrying about his bees.

Because I was coordinating visiting nurse and thrice-weekly doctor visits, the kids flying in and out because the oncologist thought Tommy might not make it much longer, and all household chores while still trying to run a business — the last thing I had time for or interest in was his stupid bees!  But, they meant so much to him I thought I’d try to keep them alive as long as he was alive.  With resentment and anger over them (but in hindsight, probably for situation, not necessarily the bees), through a friend’s acquaintance, I got the number of the Walter T Kelly Company, and was told they’d be very helpful.

As luck would have it, I ended up talking with Jane, who runs the company, and pouring out my fears and frustrations along with lots of tears about the situation.  (Refer to this blog about that time for more.)  Jane talked me through what I had to do for the bees, in addition to giving me much-needed moral support.

Long story short, Jane and I became friends, as did the bees and I.  Bee-cause I love them, as did Tommy, I decided to add more hives this year (for a total of 13.)  The honey that they produce will be sold, with all profits going to Tommy’s charities.  (More about that in future blog updates.)

And, because Jane from the north is full of southern hospitality, she invited Jessica, Shiloh and me to spend the night on Monday, and leave with the bees Tuesday morning.  When we arrived at her place, we were greeted by Jane, her husband Sean, a bear of an incredibly happy dog named Walter, cold beer, and the smell of amazing barbeque chicken on the grill.

We had an evening of laughs — feasting on barbeque chicken and friendship.  When Jessica and I finally retired to the beautiful guest bedroom, we lay there giggling and whispering about Sean and Jane, their crazy life, our crazy life (did I mention we’d be driving north with 100,000 bees in the vehicle with us?), and how they intersected such that we’d be leaving in the morning (with 100,000 bees in our vehicle.  And Walter, if we had room to kidnap him.)

It had been a grand day, and a grand evening, and sharing a room and continued laughs with my grown-up baby was very fun.  As we reflected on the adventures of the day and the circumstances that put us there, Jessica remarked “You know you have Dad to thank for all of this!”

I giggled, somewhat nervously.  “You know, tomorrow we get in a vehicle with 100,000 bees.  We may  not be that thankful about it!”

The next day we did get in a vehicle with 100,000 stinging, not-happy-about-bee-ing caged insects … but unfortunately, not Walter.

Jess was driving, I rode shotgun, and Shiloh rode in the backseat, no longer turning to look out the back window because I think she was a bit bothered by the constant buzz just a foot or so behind her.  We had only one planned stop — the Walter T Kelley Company — where we’d get a tour, and then we’d be making a beeline for Michigan.

I LOVE seeing how things are made / how they work, and found the tour fascinating.  Manufacturing beekeeping supplies is labor-intensive.  The operations were an interesting blend of gosh-darned friendly folks, old world equipment being run by true craftsman both in the art of making precision hive parts and keeping that equipment turning, and pockets of automation to track, produce and ship all that flows through there.  In the midst of manufacturing were bees, like this photo of a load of nucs (small hives of bees) for customers to pick-up.  (We were getting packages of bees to put into hives, not bees already in small hives.)

 Pictured below are 8 of our 10 packages of bees, back in Michigan.

Although we didn’t want to leave the all-enveloping sweet scent of the beeswax room, we finally had to head north.  With a final hug from Jane, we were outta there …

More on our eventful beeline home  in the next post …

Daughter Jessica’s boyfriend Travis says there are two kinds of people in this world:

• Those who have bobcatted, and
• Those who have not.

Travis declared this the end of last weekend … a weekend he spent bobcatting to level his backyard, while wearing farmer-esque clothes, and a huge grin on his face.

I learned of Travis’ joyful activity a day later, when I arrived in Atlanta.  Road weary, I just wanted to collapse on a couch and check my email, and maybe unwind to a little TV … but no.  In his happy bobcatting abandon,  Travis had taken out a few key utilities.

So, if you were wondering why I haven’t responded to emails until now, or posted on Tommy’s blob, it’s because there are really three types of people in this world:

Jess and I had planned to work on Travis’ house — stripping wallpaper, painting the guest bathroom, etc. throughout the week.  Because there was no electronic entertainment, I awoke the next morning and started ripping down the country duck print from the dining room with the enthusiasm of an office worker who rented a bobcat for the weekend.

When Travis returned from work that night, he was very appreciative that the faded, foul fowl print was smashed in the trash, and the bathroom trim had gone from moldy green to sparkling white.  But, he was concerned that I wasn’t enjoying my vacation.

Not at all.  Doing something, or more specifically — wanting to actually do something — was wonderful.

For the last month of so I’ve been in this lethargic state of apathy, broken up by occasional small bursts of energy where I clean out a drawer or closet, but often don’t get the contents sorted and restored before fatigue chews through me.

So, there’ll be 20 types of office supplies from a drawer in Tom’s office, dumped on the kitchen counter, and there they’ll sit, sucking the energy out of me with their tangible reminder that I have much to sort through and figure out and organize … and I don’t care.

My grief therapist tells me that such apathy is normal and part of the process, and not to worry.  (And I’m not worrying — that’s one of the blessings of apathy! )

So, it was surprisingly delightful to have focus and energy again, and a place to apply it (foul fowl wallpaper.)  I felt like those tender green shoots unfurling in the woods — I’ve been pushing and pushing and I felt surrounded by endless layers of dead leaves.  Ripping down wallpaper made me feel like something was finally broken through, and the sun and fresh air of interesting activity was very renewing.  But, like those green shoots, the sun of activity did wilt me over time … allowing me to also fall in bed early each night, exhausted as usual — but this time, exhausted because I’d actually accomplished something.

Such is grief.

By the end of Day #2, the lemon yellow bathroom walls were a calming blueish grey, and the paned windows painstakingly painted (and the paint scrapped off the glass.)  Again, such activity felt great, but along with errant paint splatters on the floor were errant emotions.   I so wished I could talk with Tommy about how great Jessica looks, about how she’s setting up a household and yelling at others for doing things she did as a kid (gasp!  Things spilled in the fridge and no one cleaned it up!)  I wanted to tell Tommy about the half inch of pollen that covers everything in Atlanta this time of year, and how he should be in the south as Spring exploded.

I felt real alone and real depressed a few times, because while Jessica is loved by many, no one loves (and knows) her like her parents, and this one feels incredible pride at seeing the young woman she’s become.  There’s no one else that wants to reflect ad nauseum about that with me.  The guy who so prominently molded her is gone.

But, life is what it is, so I’ve just gotta get through things, and know that a little bit of energy (finally!) is a good thing, and getting down that last-century wallpaper?  A great thing.

I need to hurry along the path toward figuring out my new life though, because the grief angst and apathy are causing my hair to go grey and white.

Or maybe that’s just paint splatters …

Because we’re having July in March, I’ve been puttering about the yard the last few days, doing yardwork and preparing the hives for the arrival of the new bees, due in two weeks.

Sun, ducks quacking from the lake, an ever-changing orchestra of birds, and trees that change hourly as they begin to bud — Spring is fantastic.

And, manual labor outdoors is fantastic.  I get lost in the progress of raking up leaves, or picking up fallen branches (which the dog carries from the pile back into the yard.)

Spring is a time rich for the senses, and rich with memories.

For the past two years, I’ve spent much of Spring in the yard, because Tom was home convalescing.  In Spring ’08 he was recovering from emergency surgeries and a month in the hospital, and between daily visiting nurse appointments and weekly multiple doctor visits, when I wasn’t tending him, I was tending to his gardens or bees.

Spring ’09 saw us in the throes of various chemotherapy attempts, along with trips to Chicago for targeted liver radiation, and enjoying each other in a renewed relationship that was blossoming most beautifully.

I worked in the yard when I could, wearing both phones on my belt — the home phone in case someone called, so I could grab it before it woke Tom, and my cell phone, so if Tom needed me — he could call.

On the days when he felt lousy, I’d check on him hourly, taking him a few slices of strawberries or cheese, and encouraging him to drink.  Looking back through the filter of time, I think there were more good days than bad, more good hours than lousy ones.

Sometimes when I checked on him, he’d be working in bed on his laptop — trading stocks, trading fantasy baseball league players (probably more often), or surfing the internet to find new plants for the gardens or gadgets for the bees because he was always always always planning for the future.

And almost every time, except on the lousy days, if he did nothing else all day, he’d fix me an awesome dinner.

I love getting lost in the manual work of the yard during this lovely weather, until I return to the house.   Only the obese cat is lying in bed, no Tom.  There is no tantalizing smell of dinner cooking … in fact, there’s really not much in the fridge — even if I had the knowledge to prepare it.  UPS no longer makes multiple trips to the house each week, dropping off little brown boxes containing tangible proof that Tom was planning on a long future here.

That didn’t happen, and re-realizing it, sometimes several times a day, causes actual physical pain.   That sucks, severely, but at least this gnawing of grief wears me out such that I sleep easily and deeply, most nights (and some afternoons!:))

I’m doing better now, but damn — there are hours / days when I really annoy the cat but make him move out of the exact middle of the king-sized bed anyway so I can curl up and cry.  Some of the tears come from frustration at doing all the “firsts” (taxes, turning on the sprinkler system, grilling, etc.), and some of the tears come from having to do all these firsts.  That certainly wasn’t in our plans.

Tom was so good at planning many things — gardens, dinner, what we’d do with our lives together, our vacations, our retirement.

I did what I was good at, and let him focus on all of that.  Except the “what I was good at” category was pretty limited (knitting, swimming, managing his bees and keeping him calm about doctor visits), and none of those “skills” is helping me as I try to figure out my future …

I never really thought about what to do with myself, because I stupidly never thought that it would just be “myself” to think about — I was too busy living in the moment to let cancer eat the hope that there might not be a future for us.  Naive, yes — but that’s what you do when you take each day as the gift it is while trying to keep that huge pile of worry piling up from engulfing you.

Golly Tommy, I miss you.