My honey bees will bee here soon! (See what I did there?) I have wanted a bee hive or two for a hot minute, but this is the year. There have been quite a few odd looks when I tell folks about my impending arrivals. Then inevitably they ask, why?
Growing up my Granddad kept bees. I remember the summers in the little yellow house across from the fire station taking turns spinning the gigantic stainless steel tub and watching the sweetest gold candy drip out into a bucket. Later in the summer when my sisters and I were trying Grama’s patience, she’d park us on the front porch with a box full of bottled honey and a sign $3 per jar. She promised we’d go halves on the sales. We never sold a single jar, but it sure kept us out of her space for an afternoon. When I think of Grampa’s honey, I think of summers picking green beans, complaining about being bored, and begging to watch a rerun of Three’s Company.
Summers were long and hot back then. Our childhood was a slow rhythm of waking, spending time in the garden, preparing meals, and doing chores. Time was kept by the fire station’s noon whistle and fireflies. When we were bored Grama invented games of post office with recycled mail or sent us to take turns on the tire swing Grampa hung from the giant mulberry tree. We learned fractions while we cooked, improved our math facts trying to predict the winner of the Miss America Pageant by keeping track of each contestants points, and the meaning of hard work watching those two.
The older I get, the more being planted is important. I’m pretty sure that I could pick up some local honey at the farmer’s market for less money than I have invested in this, but what fun would that be?