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!

(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.

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.

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 …

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.