I found a small plastic vial, and Bec moved ashes into it.  That didn’t go as easily as planned, and she noted that Tom was really messy.

Some things never change. 

Our insane sense of humor keeps us rather sane, so there were plenty of other wisecracks — about things like how to transport ashes internationally, and their resemblance to substances of a higher street value. 

When I hooked up with son Ben in Florida, we discussed spreading the ashes, and decided to share the option to participate with others in our party.    You never know how people are going to react to handling of someone’s remains, so we tried to be a little sensitive about tossing parts of Tommy overboard into the frothy seas … especially knowing Tommy would’ve preferred to be tossed into a vat of frothy beer, given the choice.

On the Charlotte emotion-meter, the cruise was harder than I thought it would be.  While I knew there’d be alot of memories because we were travelling in a very familiar mode, I thought having so much of Tom’s family around me, and a different cruise line, would make it different enough to not expect to see Tom around every corner.

Wrong, again!  When cruising, Tommy the night owl and I (who goes to bed with the chickens) generally did our own thing, hooking up for dinners or occasionally unexpectedly in the cabin during the day.  Bopping about the ship on my own was nothing unusual.  As I wandered about (constantly searching because I swear they relocated my cabin every few hours), my mind would often float off.  Unfortunately, that meant practically every time I (finally) found the cabin or the dining room–and I realized Tom wasn’t there–it was a blow to my heart.  When I went on excursions, I found myself thinking “I’ll need to show Tommy these pictures when I get back,” or “I should buy this for Tom” followed by the piercing recollection that he wasn’t lounging onboard in a deck chair.

The other thing that was harder than expected was seeing couples.  I don’t begrudge any of them … even when they’re embarrassing themselves by squabbling in public over stupid, pointless things.   I just miss having someone to throw their suit jacket around me when I’m chilly, remember where our cabin is, and squabble with in public over stupid, pointless things.

Anyway, we decided to scatter the ashes before dinner, the 5th night of the cruise.  We would do it from the balcony of Tom’s Uncle Tom’s stateroom as we cruised out of Cozumel.

At the appointed time, we all met in Uncle Tom’s stateroom, and opened the door to the balcony overlooking the amazing turquoise waters.

The 40-mph winds blasted us back into the stateroom.  Even in the best of circumstances getting those ashes to drift down eight stories would be questionable — the severe winds made it out of the question.  Having Tommy with us in dinner would’ve been awesome, but only if he was there in person, not in pieces on our clothes.

So, Plan B — scattering the ashes off a lower deck from the back of the ship after dinner …

About every 30 feet on the deck rails is a placard that says do not throw anything overboard.  Of course, we respected that.  And you might want to stop reading here.

For those of you still reading, we temporarily ignored that.  Assisted by gusty winds (thank goodness for our huge meal so we didn’t blow overboard), we strolled to the back of the ship.

I was too emotional to speak.  So, while Ben and I were group-hugged as we stood poised over the protected-from-the-winds railing, Tommy’s Uncle Tom led us in a salute to a bee-loved husband, father, son, brother, nephew, uncle and friend, in that surprisingly calm area of the ship.

I then scattered the small container of ashes overboard, expecting them to drop down.

The ashes did.  The dust–which was significant–did not.  Instead it hovered in the air above our heads for a looong minute.

Nine-year-old niece Squamantha said “look everyone, a heart!”  and she was right.  The shimmery grey ashes reflected the running lights of the ship as they formed an undeniable, perfectly heart shape that stretched about ten feet wide, ten feet above and away from us, just off the stern.  Hallmark could not have formed a more perfectly shaped heart.

Just then, seven-year-old niece Squidney, in her endearing, matter-of-fact melodic little girl voice said without hesitation: ”We love you too Uncle Tom.”  There was no doubt in her mind that it was a message from the uncle who loved her, and all of us, immensely.

I don’t doubt it either.

We tried to photograph the heart, but the camera couldn’t capture it.  Some things defy photography, but that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.

And, some things defy explanation, but that doesn’t mean they’re not real.

We love you too Uncle Tom.

Even with those shadows on the vacation, I wasn’t happy at all about returning.  It is better feeling alone while surrounded by thousands of other people on a cruise ship in the Caribbean — than actually being alone at home in March in Michigan … especially because many of those thousands of people were bringing me food or drinks.

The Caribbean was unseasonably cool — the same as it is here.

Some of you are going “wait a minute!  We have 40-50 degrees and sunshine …”

Sorry — let me clarify.  I wasn’t talking about outdoors, but instead in my house, where the thermostat says 62 even though it is set at 70.   Sometime while I was gone (must’ve been fairly recently as it is still 62 in the house) — the furnace stopped working.

Daughter Gigantor (Becca) spent her spring break from U of M at home, babysitting three dogs and Melvin the gigantic cat.   When I got home late Saturday night, I sensed immediately the house was chilly.

Becca hadn’t noticed, not surprisingly.  She usually lives in student ghetto housing; 62 is toasty to her.  And, she babysat three medium to large dogs. all who think they are lap dogs.  Becca never had a chance to be chilled (or sit alone in a chair.)

So, I checked the breakers … everything looked good.

I stared at the furnace … everything looked normal.

I called 1-800-Wayne, who wandered over at 11 p.m.  in a sweatshirt because it was 40 degrees in Michigan.

Fortunately Wayne feels the same way I do, which is that 40 degrees outside is acceptable — but 62 degrees inside is not.  He stared at the furnace for a while as well, and then opened it to do some of those mysterious things taught at Man Camp.  It wasn’t long until there was warm air magically blowing out of the floor vents. 

It was the first warm breeze I’d felt in over a week!

Turns out there is some furnace switch that must still be on vacation, but nothing a little duct tape couldn’t override until Monday.  I’ll post more ramblings when my fingers thaw out.  But, for now, that’s a picture of me rock wall climbing aboard the Independence of the Seas.  Yes, I made it to the top.  And yes, I was wearing long pants, a thick sweater, and three shirts!

Below is a photo of (back row left to right) Tom’s sister Sooz, Tom’s brother Jim, our son Ben, and then niece Squidney, Tom’s Mom Nelda, and niece Squamantha.  Tom’s little bro Jim married my little sister Linda (legal … weird, but legal.)  Linda and I huddled together for a photo as well.

Daughter Gigantor has come home to care for the critters, mine and Tom’s brother Jim’s canines.  Someone asked if I’d be worried about her being all alone for a week.  Well of course, because Moms worry about everything.  And well, of course not, because she won’t be alone.  Fluffy, Puffy, Shiloh and Melvin the 800-pound cat will follow her from room to room.

I took off my wedding bands Thursday; that was a huge step.  What precipitated it was the engagement ring getting hung up on the interior fibers of my glove yet again.  I removed the glove with the ring still caught inside and spent a while untangling it — a long while, which gave me time to reflect.

As it has been pointed out to me, the vow was “to death do you part.”  We’re parted.  The ring seems to have a greater attachment to my glove than it does to me anyway. 

But seriously … this was a small move but emotionally huge.  Removing the rings has everything to do with me starting to come to terms with the fact that he’s gone and I need to remake my new life, and nothing to do with wanting to pick up sailors on the cruise.  As it has also been pointed out to me — wedding rings never stopped anyone from picking up people, and that’s not my style anyway.  Plus, logistically I’m not sure how I’d pick up a sailor, what with sharing a cabin with my son, and my mother-in-law and Tom’s brother in the cabin next door! 

So … I’ll blob with y’all in a week or so.  Thanks for your continued support.

Charlotte

Please recall the post of about a month ago, where I shared that we’d lost three hives. 

That’s the bad news.  But, the good news is — there’s honey available!  Daughter Gigantor helped me extract and bottle, and even though we saved over half of those beautifully filled honeycombs as a “welcome to your new hive” gift for the newbies (new bees?) that will be arriving in April, we still have several dozen containers available.

My daughters and I have been busy working on a new charitable foundation website, from which it’ll be easier to obtain honey and make donations to Tom’s favorite charities.  But, it isn’t done yet.  (I must’ve gotten distracted by extracting and the activities that inevitably follow extraction — cleaning honey off of every door knob, railing, light switch and handle.  It happens no matter how careful I try to be, but in looking for the blessings in it — finding the cat is easier when he’s stuck to the window ledge.  (The cat was never really stuck to the window ledge, he was just a little sticky and will use any excuse to lounge for hours in the same location.))

If you’d like to obtain some honey in exchange for a donation to Meals on Wheels or Loaves & Fishes, contact me via a comment here or primahub at aol, and I’ll tell you how it works currently.  (I’ll post here when the new site is up.)

Last fall Jim, from Illinois, had obtained some honey, and asked me to let him know when more was available.  I emailed him this afternoon, and was delighted to see his request for several more bottles tonight.   A smile broke across my face, and I turned to my honey after reading the email to tell him that his honey was beeloved by others … and then reality set in.  Tom’s laptop is still sitting next to mine, but his chair is empty.  Sigh.

But, I’m happy to say that the realization that he’s gone didn’t floor me.  Progress in dealing with this?

And I’m happy to say that I felt, well, happy!  I know that somehow Tommy knows this honey-for-charity thing is working and is pleased.  Not only will it help feed hungry folks, but the words of encouragement that Jim sent fed my soul also, and so maybe Tom’s making me take over his bees was his way of ensuring that I find people who keep me going in this sometimes-struggle to define my new life.  I’m not in this alone, although sometimes on a dark, snowy night with an empty chair beside me it feels that way.

Perhaps I should put some honey on the chair and stick the cat there …

“Torpedo’d” is a more apt description of what went on:  Like a boat in rough water, I was slowing moving forward (although sluggishly and often in a choppy seas), when out of nowhere something took me down.  That “something” was grief, coming at me in high velocity because some of the other defense mechanisms that may have slowed it down were not working. 

You see, one of the silver linings in death for those of us left behind is that life goes on.  We still get up, eat breakfast, laugh — and those all take on a joy in their simple normalcy as well as providing heightened enjoyment.  (Once I started actually tasting food again — a couple months after Tommy died, I was amazed at how good it tasted.  (And I haven’t stopped eating since!))

One of the downsides of death for those of us left behind is that life goes on.  We have to do the normal things like change the furnace filters and pay the bills, in addition to lots of non-normal things like retitle a car, decide it is time to stop smashing the coat closet door closed and finally sort (very sadly) Tommy’s winter boot collection, and change the furnace filters with no one to stand next to you holding the flashlight in that awkward, spider-filled space.  These little “life goes on” events — normally not waves that would knock me over — knocked me over when coupled with bigger waves.

The bigger waves included a lost cell phone, kids who were hurting because their Daddy is gone, car trouble, my own father’s health challenges.  Normally I could handle any of them (mainly because life doesn’t give you a choice), but when they all came at me at once, and all came at me the week leading up to Valentine’s Day, I was torpedo’d.

Why did I smack bottom on Valentine’s Day?  It wasn’t that I was missing Tom because it was the day of romance and chocolate.  (In fact, I didn’t miss his ranting about “it’s a made-up holiday for the greeting card companies and florists …”)  It’s because of historical events.

On February 6, 2008, Tom finally saw a doctor after years of putting it off (and nagging from many concerned people.)

On Friday, February 8, after reviewing the lab results, the doctor scheduled Tom for the first available colonoscopy on Monday.

That Monday the doctor performing the procedure said there was tissue of concern and to schedule an appointment with his office in a week.

Twenty-four hours later the doctor’s office called and said he needed to see Tom asap.

When I came home from work on February 14th, 2008, (Tom refused to let me go to the doctor with him), my husband “greeted” me with the news that he had stage IV colon cancer.  Happy F-ing Valentine’s Day.

So, of all the holidays and firsts that have passed since Tommy passed, why was I torpedo’d by the days leading up to February 14th ?  I think it is because Valentine’s Day marked the 2-year anniversary of when I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the life Tom and I had envisioned would never be.   I have a girlfriend who lost her husband to a car accident.  The day of Joe’s death is when her life veered in an entirely different direction.  Valentine’s Day 2008 is when my did.  I very strongly suspected (and probably knew deep down) that Tom would never see our grandchildren,  take our niecelettes fishing, or haul that truckload of dirt he had dumped in our back driveway to the new garden spot.

But, I was hopeful and helpful following that news — and joined Tom in the fight.  Sometimes during those 18 months we were even optimistic.  But, that Valentine’s Day, 2008 — I knew life would never be the same.  I’d ridden the no-cure-for-this-cancer roller coaster for three years with my Mother.  The roller coaster can level out and you can coast from time to time, but — in Mom’s case, and in Tom’s case — you could never get off the ride and the seatbelt just kept getting tighter around your lungs.

So, after thinking about all this (and blobbing it, because blobbing helps) I understand why I’m grieving so much this time of year.  My grief therapist affirmed that this was all part of “getting through it,” and loaned me an awesome book (“Loving Grief”, by Paul Bennett) that noted that pain submerged is pain left to do “anonymous mischief.”  Pain has to work its way out somehow.  So, better tears than tension headaches, losing your car in the parking lot, punching a wall, and / or cracking your tail when you slip on ice in your driveway because you were too distracted to notice it.  (All things, except for punching a wall, that I did last week.)

The book also likened grief to an undertow.  You’re constantly fighting grief with emotional energy whether you realize it or not … and you can run out of energy before you realize how much you were expending.  Like fighting a rip current, only when you give in and go with it for a while can you gradually start to get out of it.

I’m swimming out of it now.  A trip to Ann Arbor helped — not only to see daughter Becca, but also because there’s a Baskin-Robbins (which I visited both upon arriving and as I drove out of town.)  Blobbing about it helps, as has curling up with the cat and vegging in front of the Olympics.

Anyway …  if you’re still reading this by now — please don’t worry.  It is all part of this my awesome grief therapist tells me, and I’m doing much better now.  I’m sharing this only because you might have wondered about me (if you were one of the people I cried all over last week), and in hopes that I can help someone else (sometimes you have to give in to the grief), and because … who knows?  Maybe Baskin-Robbins will read this and open a location in my living room.

A bee hive’s population starts out about 5,000 in the spring, and can grow by 10 times throughout the summer.  Same with preschoolers.  Within 20 minutes there were seemingly alot more of them, or maybe its just that they were all sitting waaaaay closer to me.  Corporate execs I can handle.  Non-stop sneezing / coughing / jumping-bean children?  Aaaaahhhhhhhh!!

They were a wonderful group.  I read them a story (Bee and Me), and did a show and tell on what’s inside a hive, what honeycomb looks and feels like, why I wear a bee suit and what it looks like.

At this part of the presentation I usually put on a hood, and then ask the kids what else I need to protect me.  The hood kept falling aside, so I removed it, saying “Let’s pretend my hood is still on.  What else do I need?” and waved my bare hands around.

“You need to put the hood on!” the chorus said.

“OK … let’s pretend it is on.  What else do I need to cover?” I said, again waving about my bare hands.”

Again:  “you need to put the hood on.”

So much for our game of pretend.  I put the hood on.

I had two dozen dead bees mounted in closed, clear containers kids could see if they wanted to do so.  Most kids were fascinated, and scrutinized them.

Some kids didn’t watch to hold a dead bee, even if it was inside a plastic vial.  Understandable.

A couple kids asked if they were candy.

Actual honeycomb got passed through 60 sets of hot sticky hands, and actually came back looking mainly like honeycomb!

I then asked if there were any questions … and this is where things sort of fell apart.

Q:  “How do you get bees?”

A:  “I order them from a catalog.”

Follow-up Q:  “What’s a catalog?”

Or:  “My sister is allergic to bees.”  And:  “I once saw a bee in my house.”

One of the teachers stepped in about then and reminded the kids what a question is, and we got back on the right track with “how do bees make honey?” and “how do they get in and out of the hive?”

Those are questions I can answer.  I know it is silly, but when a little boy randomly asked me “do you have an orange watch,” it stumped me.

Turns out his brother has one, in case you were wondering about that.

The relevance of that to bees?  Well, that’s what I’m wondering about!

Every night, if they’re not already sitting on me, I call for my “Animal Support Team” when I wander to the bedroom.  Shiloh the Dog and Melvin the (obese, lazy) Cat quickly assume their snuggling positions.

Yesterday I was chilled all day, so I definitely needed them in bed.  Shiloh escorted me to the bedroom, but Melvin (who spends 99.999% of his time sleeping on the couch) was a no-show.

I climbed in between cold sheets, and needed hefty Melvin for my right side, so I called again.  And again.  And again.

And a few minutes later he jumped up on the bed, dropping the mouse he was carrying on my chest.

I’m a farm girl, mice don’t bother me.  I was also cold and tired.  I scooped up the limp mouse in a tissue and deposited it in the bathroom trash, taking care to shut the door in case Melvin wanted him back.

I hopped back under the covers between the animals … and then I thought about what I’d just put in the trash — a very warm mouse.  It must’ve been just killed.

Or it was still very much alive and just napping …

While I appreciate that Melvin recruited a third member for the Animal Support Team, and Melvin was EXCESSIVELY pleased with himself for doing so, I started thinking about that potentially live mouse in my bathroom.  Sure, the door was shut … but if closed doors kept mice from entering the house, I wouldn’t have a mouse in my bathroom in the first place.

It was 11:35.  When it is too late to call neighbor Wayne?

I analyzed it as Melvin purring loudly on my chest.  If the mouse was alive and came out of the bathroom, I was protected (allegedly) by my bed buddies.  I listened for scratching but — as I said –  Melvin was purring loudly on my chest.  I fell asleep.

When I got up during the night, I used the bathroom down the hall.  I wasn’t ready to find a mouse perched on my toothbrush.

This morning I remembered the dilemma, and got neighbor Rose on the phone in case, when I opened the door, an enraged mouse flew at me swinging a razor.  Sure, I could’ve taken Melvin with me instead of the phone, but it takes a lot to carry Melvin, and if I had to throw him at the mouse, I’m not sure the floor would support it.

Dead mouse.  Whew.

I’m wondering which warm animals will show up when I go to bed tonight.

I saw this angel in my life on Monday.  I shared with her that when I’d mentioned to a small group that I was seeing a grief therapist, most of them looked at me with disbelief, and one even commented “Still?  It’s been five months!”

Yeah.  Sorry.

Not over it yet … but I’m grieving as fast as I can.

Sorry folks who think I should be moving along more quickly — I just don’t feel that’s possible.  I think the “one year” rule-of-thumb is very accurate — even if, like many of us, you knew it was going to happen sooner rather than later and thought you had somewhat prepared for it.  My grief seems to swell as I go through the many firsts, and hopefully after a year I’ll be through most of them. 

The “firsts” hurdles were high and thick throughout the holidays.  I’ve hurdled many more since then though.  An exceptionally high hurdle for me currently is the taxes.  “We” always had someone do them, but getting together the pounds of paperwork is a dazzling and overwhelming task.  Sorry Tommy — for not appreciating more that you did that!

For the most part, life is getting back to “normal,”  normal being a new normal.  Tommy the Night Owl always used to tuck me in and then do whatever he did late at night.  I know he sometimes dreaded tucking me in, because only after I’d climbed into bed did I remember that the cat needed to be fed, I needed to take a medication, my cell phone needed to be charged, the gallon of milk was still in the car, the laundry needed to go to the dryer, etc.  He’d always take on the task list, because once I climb in bed I find it almost impossible to rouse the energy to get up again.

The first few times I had to muster the energy to get up again, growl.  But, I’m getting better at remembering to charge my medications, take the cat out of the car, and put the milk in the dryer before I go to bed now. 

And, I no longer think “oh, I’m going to bed all alone.”  While I am, it is starting to seem normal.   I allow the dog in bed (not that she gives me much of a choice.)  When she snores, as Tom would do, she gets elbowed … like Tom did.   Melvin the 80# cat also joins us.  While the animals don’t pig the covers like Tom did, they lay tightly next to me atop of the blankets, sometimes pinning me down.  That’s fine for these chilly nights, but come summer I may need to remind them who is really in charge around here (Melvin, it’s NOT you.)

There have been a few times recently, when I’m tired and not thinking clearly, that the thought passes through my head that it is time to get back to normal:  the hoopala of holidays is over, the kids are back to where they go, it is time to return to the way it used to be … and then I am jolted by the thought that I can’t get back to the way it used to be.

While that has deeply and forever wounded my heart, I rarely have a pity party when I’m reminded of the reality.  I’ve learned the same “peace” that my Mom, who also died of cancer, once explained to me.  I’d asked her if she got depressed or frustrated with having leukemia — she always shrugged and said “it is what it is, you just got to keep going.”  I now better understand that.  I don’t like where I’m at in life — it certainly wasn’t part of the plan.  I know I need to envision a new future for me and start finding my way there, but I keep tripping over the hurdles and that keeps me from gaining much speed in moving forward.  But, it is what it is.

And I’m grieving as fast as I can.

Yesterday, because it was slightly sunny, and an unseasonable near-50 degrees here in Michigan, bee-buddy Rose and I visited the hives to see what was up with our sisters of the sting.  (For what bees doing in winter, a synopsis is way below.)

As we neared the hives, we were DELIGHTED to see bees.  At one hive, the golden insects were lined up for take-off just outside their door, not unlike the line outside the women’s bathroom at a sporting event.  At another hive there were 20 or 30 bees hanging out on the front step, no doubt inhaling fresh air and joyfully remembering what light looks like.  At a third hive they were taking short, slow, clumsy-shake-out-the-muscles flights and high-fiving each other.  Many of them landed on us, stumbled about a bit, flew to the other sleeve.  We laughed in delight that they were alive and enjoying the day.  Inter-species connectivity is so cool.

And at three other hives, there was no action.  Nothing.

With trepidation, Rose and I opened each lid ever so slightly and see what we could see.

What we saw wasn’t good — or was good — depending upon your perspective.  We saw dead bees, and lots of moisture, and lots of untouched honey.  Sigh.

The bee books say such attrition, while perhaps high, isn’t unusual — especially for first year hives.  There was no evidence of disease, vandalism, breaking and entering, or substance abuse in these hives.  Upon talking with my bee pimp Jane, I think these hives (that were weak entering the winter) just couldn’t survive the inevitable moisture build-up they create inside … compounded by living by a swamp.

Rose and I thought we were OK with the inches-deep dead bees.  Trying to find the positive, we had three hives still frolicking; we’ve learned alot (and are going to move the new, replacement hives to higher ground); there is beautiful honey the others have left behind to jump-start the new bees coming in April.  We try to find the blessings in things, and yesterday, with the slight sunshine and sweatshirt weather, there was the scent of spring and hope in the air and losing three hives of bees didn’t seem so bad.

That was yesterday.  Today it is below freezing with snowflakes spitting from the sky, a frigid, brisk breeze … and no sunshine, externally or internally.   I learned last week that some aspects of Tommy’s estate aren’t locked and loaded as I’d been led to believe, and that our (now ex) attorney hadn’t bothered to inform me of some key issues and deadlines.  I’m not the first widow to stupidly let her spouse handle everything and assume it was OK, and I’m not real angry at Tom about it.  First, because he’s not here and that doesn’t do any good, and second, because golly — he was spending all his energy fighting cancer and trying to make a quality of life under severe storm clouds.   With the storm gathering, I’m not blaming him for spending his final months planning his fantasy football strategy, reading Robert Parker books, and laughing with me.  It was my fault for trusting in a marvelous mind that had unfortunately already lost grasp of some important things.

So today, I cried about the bees.  I’ve had enough death in my life lately:  I really didn’t need 18,000 little bodies — whom I cared for and had great plans and hopes for — to clean out of their perfectly drawn honey comb.  What does one do with 18,000 dead bees anyway?  (BTW, they’d probably fill 3 gallon jugs, if you were wondering what 18,000 dead bees look like.)

I suspect the ample tears were for other things as well — other great plans that will never be, the estate document I thought was locked and loaded, and my own carefully crafted honey comb house full of stuff to be cleaned out … because my husband loved to buy things on Amazon, and could never throw anything away.

And I still have more blessings than dead bees — like a job, a car that starts (actually, two of them!), a house over my head, lots of caring friends and family.  Unlike the Haitians, much of my family is still alive and I think I know where my kids are, or at least I’ll assume they’re at the same colleges to whom I write the tuition checks.  Compared to so many other people, I have no problems.  But compared to so many other people, I probably had a lot more tears today — which happens.

And I think I have a lot more dead bees!

Background on wintering bees: They form a cluster in their hive which keeps the queen at 92 degrees.  The cluster ever-so-slowly feeds and moves across the stores of honey throughout the winter.  Bees are freaks about cleanliness, so they hold their waste in until spring, or until they have a chance to fly out (like yesterday) and relieve themselves.  There isn’t much a beekeeper can do to assist them over the winter, other than keep their doorway clear of dead bees so that airflow through the hive can happen — otherwise humidity builds up in the hive, and the dripping cold water kills them.  (Natural aging / bee death just happens throughout the winter.  Additionally, bees are fairly quick to escort any elderly, waning hive members to the chilly outdoor to preserve resources. ) I’ve been brushing dead bees from the doorways a couple of times a week since winter began, and keeping the bees’  front doors snow-free to ensure ventilation.

(Because yes, plastic bears filled with honey need scarves.)

When each and every bear marched out of here and raised a couple thousand dollars for Meals on Wheels and Loaves & Fishes, I decided to manage more bees this year in the hopes of raising more $ in Tommy’s memory.

As I’ve investigated things in anticipation of more honey this year, I found larger plastic bears.  The way some people I know (Jon G, Barb K) go through Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey, I wish they offered gallon-size bears.  But, the larger plastic bears that hold twice the honey of the usual bears are menacing-looking enough because of their size, so perhaps they are large enough.

Sister-in-law Sooz agreed the larger bears look rather formidable, and joked (or so I thought) that we’d need to make hats and mittens for them to soften their appearance.

When I got home from work today, there was a package in my mailbox from my mother-in-law.   A picture is worth a thousand words:

Fourth from the left is a bear from ‘08 — one of a few bears I have left.  Like fine wine, Tommy and I saved the first bear of each season.

He’s the only one with honey.  All honey was donated this year, so I had to photograph the new, larger bears empty — but wanted to show what my mother-in-law sent me (along with the new size bears.)  The guy on the far left sports a billed hat, the other blue hat resembles a ski cap, the other bears are wearing bonnets.   My mother-in-law made matching scarves for each, but I didn’t dress them all … yet.  (Plastic bears filled with honey need scarves; empty bears do not.).  They don’t look menacing at all now, do they?! 

While these bears will look even better when they’re filled with golden-brown sweetness and there’s a flower or plastic bee attached to their hat, I’m interested in any feedback about preferred hat style, along with any prayers that we’ll have another bumper crop of honey to help feed those in need.

I hope those hats made you smile; they sure brightened my day.

Charlotte