Savage Nature

I believe that if I live seasonally, in the way Ma Nature intends the rest of the organic world to live, I will be altogether better. Bountiful, beautiful, bright-eyed summer will find me indulging in juicy watermelon and cool green honeydew, laughing with my silly friends, and splashing around in pools, lakes, oceans and rivers alike. I'll bust out the running man with the no-nonsense enthusiasm of a lemon cucumber vine spitting out yellow, tennis-ball-ish fruit; the butterfly will burst from my crazy legz like a million purple string beans.

During the indian summer, I'll begin to reflect on the untamed euphoria of previous months; the trees will turn fiery and I'll eat fresh pumpkin bread to fatten up for the oncoming winter, during which I will essentially hibernate. Springtime, that magical season of hope and promise, will provide me with the first asparagus of the season, crisp and sweet, and embrace me with happy yellow daffodils and joyful pink tulips. Then it'll start all over again: excess, reflection, rest, growth, repeat. If I could discipline my body and mind to respect this archetypal cycle, I believe I'd be a more productive, happier, healthier person.

2009 has afforded me the oft-forgotten luxury of rolling with the tides, as they say. No obsessive planning. No lofty schemes. I've barely made a decision; decisions have presented themselves in front of me as if to say "I am the only logical choice." I drifted into the cycle in March, that temperamental lamb-beast, and I've cycled through as beekeeper, then writer, then farmer, all the way into the heart of August.

Keeping bees, working on a farm, and writing share a common denominator: the beekeeper, the farmer, and the writer rely on that which is natural and wild to be natural and wild, while attempting to contain the naturalness and wildness within an imposed structure. We must work with nature-- the hive mind, the harvest cycle, the unbridled idea--and manipulate it to produce our intended outcome. (Do I sound Romantic yet?)

From Andre Gide's The Immoralist:

"I marveled at the serene future promised by those robust oxen, those fat cows in their opulent pastures.

Secret treasure, Red Hook Community Farm

The apple trees planted in rows on the favorable hillsides heralded a splendid crop that summer;

First local heirlooms of the season, Union Square Greenmarket

I dreamed of the rich burden of fruit beneath which their branches would soon be bending.

NYC tomatoes sans blight (so far)

From this orderly abundance, from this happy subservience, from this smiling cultivation, a harmony was being wrought,

Little Shop of Horrors collard greens, Red Hook Community Farm, Brooklyn

no longer fortuitous but imposed, a rhythm, a beauty at once human and natural,

Rooftop hive in Fort Greene, Brooklyn

in which one could no longer tell what was most admirable, so intimately united into a perfect understanding were the fecund explosion of free nature and man's skillful effort to order it.

Morning light at Red Hook Community Farm, Brooklyn

What would that effort be, I thought, without the savage mastery it masters?

Bed prep at Added Value's farm on Governor's Island

What would be the savage energy of that overflowing sap without the intelligent effort which channels and discharges it, laughing, into profusion?"

Man mastering savage nature in Brooklyn

Mata Hari and Spies Arrive at French Hotel

While I drifted through New Orleans on a borrowed and brand new, shiny, fire engine red Cruiser, the Bee Team received another hive on the Metropolitan rooftop! We welcome Mata Hari, our queen of the new Italian honeybees from the heartland of Ohio, and her brand new colony. For simplicity's sake, I'll refer to hive #2 as The French Hotel and its inhabitants as the Spies.

Rumors of the Spies' erratic behavior preceded my first encounter with them. Who are these wild beasts with wings? I contemplated on my early-morning A train journey. Whispers of Brandon being stung not once BUT TWICE may have frightened timid beekeepers, perhaps challenging their notions of life and death. But the Bee Team is composed of fearless individuals with iron wills and valiant hearts. We climbed the arduous stairs and strode toward the French Hotel without flinching.

It is best to approach any hive from the side, so as not to block the flight paths of the busy bees. A human standing before the hive's entrance is tantamount to a group of lollygagging teenagers blocking the subway entrance after school lets out. They're regardlessly annoying, but infuriating when one tries to weave through their profanity-spouting, teenage-P.D.A. sessions when carrying half of one's weight in groceries. Sting-worthy, if you will.

You'll notice that The French Hotel looks like natural wood, but as we all know, looks can be deceiving. It is painted, albeit clear-ish, to decelerate the inevitable rotting process of the wood. Contrastingly, the White House (aka Hive #1) bears a pale yellow coat, despite its name (that I just assigned.)

The Spies were certainly bolder than the inhabitants of

the White House, (now called Secret Service.) However, their tendency to fly directly into people and crawl on clothes and hair seemed more a function of curiosity than intimidation.

Here, they can be seen organizing themselves already: guard bees at the ready, foragers coming and going:

We all agreed that the Spies' appearance was noticeably different than that of the Secret Service: more distinct stripes, bigger, sleeker and shinier.

The first order of bees-nass was to check on the Bee Tea feeder in the French Hotel. These bees are still feeling their way around the Big Apple, so we provide them with easy food access in case they experience reclusive shock.

As you can see, they did a number on the Bee Tea. We feared that the Spies might have overindulged and that a bee hangover might have prevented them from getting to work in the hive. To check on their progress, we removed the feeder to inspect the brood box.

Hi Spies! Since all we have is the White House as a real live example of normal bee-havior, our first observation was positive. Looks like things are good in the French Hotel neighborhood. Little Spy faces expressed rainbows of emotion. In just this one photo, I see fierce, confused, elated, surprised, and suspicious:

Eagle Eye Eddie spotted some pristine white honeycomb on one of the frames, suggesting that the suspected bee-bauchery was a mere delusion. The Spies, in true honeybee fashion, had been working their tails off! See the comb?

We decided to inspect the frames to see what other progress the bees had made (and in hopes of catching a glimpse of her Majesty, Mata Hari.)

The gradually sloping white plateau seen on the frame is beeswax-constructed honeycomb. Worker bees get started on construction as soon as they consume enough nectar (and Bee Tea.) This same nectar is used in honey production. But creating honey without comb is like buying ice cubes to keep in a cabinet.

Now I'm no expert, but it looks to me like we actually caught the Spies making beeswax. Once the toddler-aged workers (5-15 days old) collect enough nectar in their abdomens, they smoosh together as if huddling for a team cheer. But instead of chanting "Go Yellow!" in unison, the heat generated from their bodies causes them to secrete viscous wax on the bottoms of their tummies. Apparently, the bees' tummies look like they're growing wax scales on them during this process. (I cannot promise a photo of this phenomenon.) Once finished, they scrape off the scales with their little bee legs (and knees,) and transfer them into their little bee mouths. They chew and chew and chew until the wax is soft enough to transform into those famous hexagons. Each hexagon points upward at an angle of 13 degrees, so that baby bees and nectar won't succumb to gravity's unfailing persistence.

If you noticed the slight angle of the white beeswax cells in the photo above, (creating a slight opaque barrier to the sunlight shining through the frame,) feel free to tack on an introductory adjective synonymous with "observant" and beginning with the same letter as your first name. Clear-Sighted Cara. Astute Alex. Keen Katie. Eagle Eye Eddie. Perceptive Penelope. Discerning Deuteronomy.

Ah, the arduous search for the queen, frame by frame by frame... with me pointing out about 13 different drones in hasty excitement... mountains and mountains of... WAIT. Is that Mata Hari?!?!?

Why, that sneaky little spy! Sneaky big spy, I should say. In both photos she manages to elude the camera partially, through a reflective wing of one of her attendants, or behind a pile of bees attempting to block the camera's line of vision. It worked: they climbed into my aperture range and put the focus on themselves instead of their queen. Their ingenuous wing shield provides a disembodying illusion that envokes doubt. However, Mata Hari's amber entirety is simply too striking too overlook, despite her best attempts.

Satisfied, we reconfigured the French Hotel. I noticed that the Scarlet Sage I'd planted a month ago and photographed on April 28th as a shy young budder peeping out into the scary world, in 2 weeks had shot skyward and erupted with ruby blossoms.

How inspired!

Back outside the docile White House, the Secret Service could be seen foraging like mad while Michelle Obama undoubtedly led the colony with strength of intention. It looked like a truckload of tiny yellow Hammer pants had exploded and landed on the bees. It was definitely Hammer Time!

98% of the pants we saw today were yellow, 1% orange, and 1% green. I believe the girl in the green Hammer pants was doing the Running Man on a frame in the French Hotel. (Other witnesses will concur that she was dancing, but might contest the dance form. The Running Man is, of course, named such because it is impossible for any animal other than human to perform.)

If I were still a teacher and the hives were my students, the White House would be the student that the French Hotel could emulate. The French Hotel is certainly on its way, but being the new foreign exchange student, has some catching up to do. Luckily, it has an exemplary neighbor to whom it can turn with both concerns and accomplishments.

The Bee Team decided that this grouping above, (on a frame in the newest wing/super in the White House,) contains both Spies and Secret Service. This intermingling is a good thing. They can help each other out.

The White House was looking so productive that there was no way we'd disturb them. We observed their insanely dedicated work ethic for a bit, then headed off to brew new, nutritious Bee Tea for the French Hotel.

We used the same recipe as our original Bee Tea, minus the Stinging Nettle. (I mean, we're still pretty doting.) We diluted, steeped, strained, and bottled it, then proceeded to admire its beauty in the sun and pose it for a tres chic photo shoot fit for Mata Hari herself.

Empirical evidence shows that bees, humans, and cats enjoy the taste of Bee Tea.
A shelf in Jill's fridge, a thing of simple beauty and a sign of soulful living:
Good to be home.

Royal Encounters

I searched for my keys for 30 minutes before I found them in my pocket of all crazy places. Unless someone gave me a ticket for a super-secret express train from Washington Heights directly to Williamsburg, I'd be late for the hive-check, and considered staying home instead. But soon, I was remembering their fuzzy little stripes, and the way they always find your most vulnerable, exposed area (hand, ankle, neck,) and crawl all over it... before I knew it, my heart dragged me to the A train.

As I'd imagined, I'd missed the initial "check in:" opening the hive, taking out some frames, checking for normalcy. The diagnosis was good, but since we'd never put the 10th frame in the brood box, the bees had started building bridges of waxy comb in the empty space. Although the world below felt pleasant, up on the roof it felt like we were on the brink of a hurricane. Jon and Eddie decided it best to leave the little dudes alone and deal with the comb another day.

Those southern bees were most likely freaking out about the menacing winds and impending rainstorms. East coast weather is always a bit of a shock. The interminable winters. The odd 65 degree day in February presumably designed to tantalize naive newcomers. As an native East Coaster, even I forget what spring is... it's a transition from one extreme to the other. It takes on the characteristics of both summer and winter. It disappoints, but it also dazzles.

The bees undoubtedly sensed the turbulent weather and were on guard. (Well, these three were on guard. Although the middle one looks like she could use some help.)

Another hypothesis is that they sensed that we'd change our minds and decide to go back in. Each bee assigned to attack one of us...

But really, that's just what they do. There are always a few guard bees outside making sure no feral outsiders attempt to break in and squat in some dank corner of their home.

Eddie raised the point that if we didn't remove the comb at that time, they'd continue building in the empty space over the next few days, which called for rain. Michelle Obama was out of her box and would soon start laying eggs. We didn't want anything to go wrong in that vital stage the of bee cycle. We had to remove the extra comb and insert the 10th frame.

(Notice the dead bee on the bottom of the hive... for later)

Or, perhaps I made this face when I heard I wouldn't get to check on my girls:

Jon made a friend.

He also decided to ditch the onesie for the first time. Coincidence?

Removing the frames gave us a chance to search for the queen.

There was a small chance we'd see her; sometimes beekeepers go as long as 4 months without a queen sighting. It felt like Where's Waldo, when you're not sure if you should speed up or slow down, focus on small areas or take it all in... The bees were swirling before our eyes when out of nowhere, Michelle Obama appeared! ...to Eddie and Jon. But I was multitasking, taking photos with one hand, holding bees in the other, lost in the queen search... so I can't be too mad at myself. PLUS, I think I might have gotten a photo of her, but only Jon or Eddie can confirm this:

She was longer, lighter, distinct, say Jon and Eddie. The bees cleared a path for her. Do you see the one I mean? To the left? Here's another queen-area shot. I don't see anything, personally, but in case I'm wrong:

It was an exciting moment, even for those of us who didn't see her. I shared in the glee of my fellow beekeepers. We swiftly removed the excess comb and the queen's box, and put the little buzzers back home, content with the knowledge that our hive is healthy and Michelle Obama is lookin great.

We decided to use the piece of comb and the queen's box for educational purposes, to show other aspiring beekeepers what to expect.

The comb is more or less skeletal at this point, as it holds no honey. The the slightly yellow cells, however, contain nectar that will become honey.

And guess what it tastes like? Bee Tea! It tastes exactly like our tea, with its strong overtones of thyme. And how do I know this?

Because each of us decided to eat the bland wax, and proceeded to suck nectar out of the cells, (and then felt weird about eating it-- the structure created by our pets' own bodies.)

Meanwhile, back at the hive, the bees were clearing out their casualties. Here, you see them dragging a dead bee out of the hive and off the ledge.

They had already chilled out from their stressful encounter with us. Below, the three on the left look like they're going to burst into a choreographed dance, (to me. Frank thinks they look like fighter jets ready for takeoff. )

Then I realized that Eddie had more bee camo on! I swear, the bees are affecting us unconsciously as well... as we reach for the stray t-shirt on the ground that happens to be...yellow! I think Eddie's shoes, chosen long before any of this bee business started up, indicate a percolating interest in honeybees, whether he knew it or not at the time.

I say this half in jest but half in earnest, because I'm still in a daze at how involved I am with this whole undertaking. I never thought to myself, "I should raise honeybees." I'm obsessed with every aspect of honey. Texture. Scent. Process. Sweet, sticky, amber ooze. A relative of flowers and bees. It satiates so many of my senses at once. It tickles my imagination: I want to live in a world where funny little striped insects disseminate nectar from one flower to another, propagating the natural cycle and making things colorful.

One day I was sitting at my computer eating heaping spoonfuls of comb honey while simultaneously reading about all of honey's natural benefits to humans and of honeybees' benefits to everything. Before I knew it, I was smearing the honey all over my face (moisturizing, exfoliating,) and paying the 20 bucks to WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) for access to a Bee Master in the Hudson Valley who would teach me the way of the bee.

Coincidentally and simultaneously, another bee brouhaha brewed in Brooklyn. There was talk of some dudes who owned a building in Williamsburg and wanted to keep bees on their roof. One of these dudes, Jason, happened to be Jon's friend from summer camp. (Adorable.) Little did we know, the Bee Team egg had been laid.

Even though he lives directly under the bees, Jason hadn't been properly introduced to them. After a few hours of talking bees (etc.) and sawing small, perfect squares into bedroom walls in search of a specific part of a water pipe for bee garden irrigation, we headed up to the roof again. John took care not to disturb the little buggers as Jason and Lori gazed into their magical world.

See the magic?