Back Porch Farm

“The squishy bugs are dy-ing, the squashy bugs are dy-ing, squishing the squashy bugs, squashing the squi…”

I blinked, realizing with shock that the monotone mumblings reaching my ears were issuing from my own mouth. “Wow. Guess this is what parenthood does to you,” I said out loud. “Ah HA! Got you you skittering varmit!” And I added another stain of squash bug inners to the fingertips of my new leather gloves. With my favorite red handled scissors, I snipped two more dry, brittle squash leaves from their stalks and crushed them enthusiastically in my fist. “Hee hee. Take THAT!” Leaf dust and bug parts rained down on the hot adobe dirt by my shoe. The late August sun was cooking my inner ankle. I shifted position onto my knees and straightened my creaky back.

It was a rare occurrence to be alone in the garden. Randy’s parents were visiting for the week and Isla couldn’t get enough of her PapaJim and Gigi. I was taking full advantage of this situation, as well as the lessening of my start-of-school cold, by burying myself in our garden jungle. I wiped my nose on my glove and watched a honey bee explore the inner sanctum of a mango colored squash blossom. Watching bees always makes me smile. I assumed this hard working insect was one of my own, or so I like to say. A second bee hovered near the opening, back legs laden with pollen grains, awaiting it’s turn within. It was so burdened with it’s protein load that I bet it would return to the hive after this last stop. I looked instinctively through the 10ft high sunflowers, the corn stalks almost ready to pick, the drying pole bean vines, in the general direction of my bee hive, and felt a pang of guilt. “Geez. I am SUCH a negligent mom,” I thought shamefully. If there was such a thing as an Apis Protective Services I would surely be reported and my hive taken away!

I first got into keeping bees some 13 years ago when I discovered a good friend was interested in the same. He had a large apple orchard and a year round stream – I had the time. The first year we harvested a gallon each of liquid gold. The second year the bears did the harvesting for us, leaving our 2 hives in splinters. Although my interest never wavered, it wasn’t until 2 springs ago that I felt ready to take on the responsibility once more. We had bought the land and house specifically for creating an urban homestead, and bees are the no-brainer first addition. Thank god they can mostly take care of themselves as, once again, I find I have filled my plate too full. I am still in awe that they have not swarmed in search of a more attentive mother – yet.

I have a curious relationship with bees. I respect them immensely and marvel at the social organization of their hive. They are energetic, untiring laborers, and the best team players I have ever known. I feel something akin to love when I watch them zip in and out of their hive entrance – a motherly affection for sure. And they also scare the bejezzus out of me! One of my original bee mentors was a Mormon man who had spent his missionary time in Paraguay tending hives of killer bees. They used the old basket skeps that one might recognize from the Highway signs along the roadways of Utah. One day while tending a hive, he was stung on his chest. He said his over shirt had come unbuttoned and the bee had stung through his inner shirt. Within a nanosecond, the chemical signal was out and the hive swarmed him, all stinging viciously in the same area on his body. He ran like hell to a nearby pond and plunged under the scum, holding his breath for all he was worth. He counted 40 stings in all. He could have easily died from the shock of that much venom.

As I assembled and painted the first hive in my new apiary, I felt excited to be a beekeeper again.

When I picked up the screen cage of 3000 worker bees and a queen from the hands of the shaking Postal worker, I felt nervous. And when I emptied the rolling, buzzing, bee ball over the frames of the first hive box, I felt…. terror.

Unfortunately, my shot of courage, in the form of a bottle of Cuervo and a wedge of lime, did not help one iota. With trembling hands I attached the queen cage strap to the top of a frame, already dreading when I would remove it in a few days. By then The Mother Superior should have eaten through the candy plug and released herself into her mass of waiting devotees. And that hive would attend her loyally and royally for the rest of her several year life.

With a soft bristled bee brush I encouraged the wee ones to begin exploring their new home. It took little effort – they were already crawling between the frames and getting down to the serious business of drawing comb. They have a strong instinctual programming and waste no time. I pushed the Bordman feeder, an inverted jar full of sugar water set in a special tray, into the entrance. They would need food and water immediately after their 3 day journey, and it would speed up the comb production if they did not have to venture far. The inner cover was next, careful to avoid squishing anyone in the process, then the telescoping outer cover. I stepped back, took a deep breath, and heaved a sigh of relief. I was nursing a serious oxygen debt from holding my breath. Gathering my hive tools, I leaned the mostly empty shipping cage against the landing board, and walked tall back to the house. By the time I pushed open the courtyard gate, I had gained full composure and was feeling rather cool. “Yep Isla, that was your mom out there in the Outback, battling vicious, woman-eating insects. But it’s OK dear, I took care of EVERYTHING. The world is, once again, safe.” I had a great desire to grab my crotch and readjust… something. Instead I chuckled with forced confidence. I imagined Mary Elizabeth Gallagher, the awkward Catholic school girl of Saturday Night Live fame, shoving her hands into her arm pits and then sniffing deeply of her pungent fingers. I could relate. I was feeling a primal male energy rising up past my insignificant ovaries. The long crotch length of my one-piece bee suit helped me along with my developing swagger. I grabbed my hive tool and spun it briskly on my finger like a six-shooter, and shoved it smartly back into my pocket. It missed it’s mark and fell unceremoniously to the sod with a wump.

My next opportunity to feel cool was bringing home the bacon of my labors (or lack there of). The one box I had gotten around to adding was chocked full of honey and very heavy. I hauled it back from the apiary, my bee veil hiding an ear to ear grin. Randy and Isla waited with anticipation on the back porch. The honey super banged down on the porch table. I slowly lifted a frame from the box and waited for my due appreciation. “Look at that! Yeah? Yeah? That was ALL me. ALL honey! ALL for us!” Applause. I felt only mild discomfort from stealing credit from the bees. It takes balls to be a bee keeper!

We hauled the box into the kitchen and set about cutting comb from frame. It was a deliciously sticky job that we performed with relish! We cut up hunks of comb and dropped them into pint jars, then crushed the remaining in a colander with a potato masher. Some days later we filled the jars to the brim with golden liquid, the chunk of comb barely visible within. And after boiling down the wax scraps, I had enough beeswax to make a lovely Solstice candle with Isla. It felt extremely satisfying.

As spring approached once more, fired up with thoughts of MORE gold, I ordered the parts for a second bee hive…. while simultaneous expanding the garden and doubling our chicken flock. My brain must be the size of an insect’s. As you may have guessed, I have not even opened the shipping crates. It’s been all I could do to get a honey super on last years solo hive. I have been painting the succeeding honey boxes (3) for the past month and I am only talking about 2 coats of paint here – not the Mona Lisa. Of course, Isla’s participation doesn’t exactly help the process along.

I should have had at least 3 or 4 honey supers stacked above the brood chamber boxes, mostly full of honey by now. It is 3 days away from September and still there is only one – a sad waste of a potential crop. Perhaps with the Grands here for a few more days I can get the second coat on and assemble the 30 frames… or at least 10 more for one additional box. I am running out of time, as are the bees. We hoped to include small jars of honey in our annual Solstice gift bags, nestled against the homemade truffles and our Better Not Pout Oatmeal Stout. But the math is clear – I only get out what I put in. Thank god my several thousand children are forgiving ones. Thank god they haven’t swarmed for greener pastures. If they do, there will be much abuzz about nothing.