I was 8 years old when the bees came. We picked them up at the post office. They were housed in a wooden and screen box about the size of a toaster. This was a most novel and delightful concept to me. I mean really, they sent the bees through the mail!
The queen bee arrived in her own special little throne room the size of a matchbox, also built quaintly of screen and wood. This box had some clever features, such as a bee-sized tunnel on one end, which was plugged with some sugary stuff. Now I was not too familiar with the details, but my dad had been studying for quite a while in preparation for this adventure. He knew just what to do. The queen box was placed into the larger container of bees –careful not to let them escape- and by the time the queen had eaten her way out through the tunnel the other bees had become acquainted with her; had accepted her dominion over them, as it were.
My siblings and I had minor roles in helping my dad to assemble the hives. There was gluing, nailing, sanding and painting to be done. When completed, the three gleaming white hives looked just great, and I could already taste our first harvest of honey. Childhood distractions being what they are, I missed a lot of details, and the next thing I knew the hives were carefully set up in their position by the creek in our back yard. Somehow –don’t ask me- the bees were introduced to their beautiful new homes and apparently liked what they saw. They were soon busy as, well, you know.
I should point out that the setting for our apiary was not a spacious farm in the country, nor on the grounds of a suburban estate, but in the backyard of a modest Roanoke City home. The proud hives were placed next to a tiny creek at the rear of the lot. This creek –a mere rivulet really- forms the rear property boundary of eight or ten houses in the neighborhood. Upstream of my childhood home the creek issues forth from a cleft in a rock outcropping at the base of a wooded hillside. It was decided that the honey which we would harvest would be known as “Spice Hollow Spring Honey”, named after our little creek. I’m not sure if the creek possessed this name prior to the existence of our apiary, or if in fact my father named it that romantic appellation to suit the occasion. It’s probably the latter.
The apiary adventure unfolded gloriously that first summer. The bees were obviously happy and healthy and doing what they were meant to do. Often, I was distracted from playing in the creek by seeing my dad dressed in his beekeeper outfit –kind of a medieval look- fiddling with the hives. I immediately found myself standing just on the edge of the cloud of bees, totally fascinated. My dad would carefully explain what he was doing, bless him – but of course I didn’t listen too well so I only got a vague notion of it all. Nevertheless I did become more acquainted with our bees and the workings of the hives. Years later, when studying biology in college I would be further amazed at the intricacies of honey bee society.
When approached with calm confidence, I learned that one can handle the racks of a bee hive without getting stung. These racks, numbering 8 or 10 per hive, consist of a waxy panel framed and mounted between wooden strips, onto which the bees construct their honeycomb. Dressed in T-shirt and shorts – no shoes of course since it was summer- I could stroll up quietly to the hives, which were buzzing with activity, and slide out the racks to check on the comb and the honey. Yes the bees would land on me and stroll around on my arms and legs, but I was never stung. Over time I felt a genuine affection for our bees.
When it came time to harvest the honey there was much excitement. All the neighborhood kids would gather as my father somehow –remember I didn’t pay attention to the details- got the honey out of the racks in the hives and placed it dripping into large containers. The process then moved into our basement, where the honey was filtered and drained into jars ordered just for the occasion. My strongest memory of that phase was seeing my mother’s panty hose, employed as a filter, hanging from the joists, laden with honey and comb. The honey thus filtered dripped from the toes of the panty hose into other containers, finally ending up in those proper little jars, a chunk of comb placed in each one. Somewhere along the way my dad had procured custom labels for the jars which proclaimed, “Spice Hollow Spring Honey”, which you’ve got to admit sounds pretty good. We spread the joy by giving away the honey to friends and relatives, and we had plenty for our family of six too.
A few years passed and the novelty of raising bees gently wore off. Alas, a small city lot is not ideal for a long-term location of an apiary. I think my dad cringed a little every time one of the neighbors ran a lawn mower within excitement range of the hives, perhaps envisioning the headline “Innocent Man Killed by Bees from Neighbor’s Poorly Placed Beehives.” Also, I suspect my dad knew that he had just about exhausted the educational and family-binding potential of such an endeavor; it was time for other adventures. The bees and the hives disappeared, but the honey-sweet memories linger.
Please don’t tell anyone about mom’s pantyhose. It’s kind of embarrassing.
