The bees are all tucked away for the winter. They're wrapped with insulated panels, held together by a bungee chord accessory purchased from the company that made the hives. It's like being a little girl and having Barbie houses with all the accessories. All those tiny parts that as a mother I hated and started vacuuming up when left scattered for too long.
Tony has become the mother waiting to vacuum up the accessories. The hives reside on the upper deck outside our bedroom door, and recently, the accessories unexpectedly flew about during an unexpected 3:00 a.m. windstorm. Tony grumbled, rose, opened the door to the cold, stepped out to retrieve the flapping pieces of plastic and the paper used to wrap the new panels that I didn't carry to the trash. I rose too, feeling terrible that my hobby had woken him up, trying to justify and minimize the interruption.
When I closed the hives for winter, I carried down all the accessories: the hive tool, the smoker, the bars, the space bars, the lighter, the nuc, the bee net, boots, gloves, jacket, the pan--and put them neatly away into the outdoor closet. Tony walked out relieved at the empty deck of accessories that would have woken him up all winter.
I will still worry about the bees. I will worry about a super-gust of wind that might turn the hive over, like a bear in the woods, leaving the bees exposed in the winter. I picture the snow packed deck, the dash for protective covering, and scrambling to put the hive together.
I worry about other creatures looking for a warm place for the winter. Hives have been known to house mice who find their way in, for moths attracted to the warmth and darkness. At least the little fox that terrorized the hives last summer shouldn't be able to climb the deck poles.
Sometimes I am fooled by the cuteness of the bees. They are such a pleasure to watch--zooming in and out of the hive, pollen packed on their skinny leg-strings. If they sense I am close, they peer out between the bars or amble out the front door to investigate. I have to remind myself, they are out to get me, even willing to give up their lives to defend the brood and the honey. It would be a deception to think we have a symbiotic relationship. I am the enemy. They have no conception of how they are cared for.
I think the same thing can be said for us.
Our dear friend recently had a life-at-risk brain surgery. Her loved ones, her friends, we all did what we could which was so little. We prayed, fasted, gave gifts of encouragement, arranged for a meal schedule over the next few months of therapy and recovery. We stayed away from the hospital while she recovered in ICU. Finally, I saw her.
She was so little sitting on her big comfy bed, not allowed to get off without help. She was beautiful, childlike, full of love and appreciation. She showed me her purple heart head staples.
She had been tucked, wrapped, and labored over, even attended to by powers unknown and unseen. The surgery was a success. She will recover completely.
Tony has become the mother waiting to vacuum up the accessories. The hives reside on the upper deck outside our bedroom door, and recently, the accessories unexpectedly flew about during an unexpected 3:00 a.m. windstorm. Tony grumbled, rose, opened the door to the cold, stepped out to retrieve the flapping pieces of plastic and the paper used to wrap the new panels that I didn't carry to the trash. I rose too, feeling terrible that my hobby had woken him up, trying to justify and minimize the interruption.
When I closed the hives for winter, I carried down all the accessories: the hive tool, the smoker, the bars, the space bars, the lighter, the nuc, the bee net, boots, gloves, jacket, the pan--and put them neatly away into the outdoor closet. Tony walked out relieved at the empty deck of accessories that would have woken him up all winter.
I will still worry about the bees. I will worry about a super-gust of wind that might turn the hive over, like a bear in the woods, leaving the bees exposed in the winter. I picture the snow packed deck, the dash for protective covering, and scrambling to put the hive together.
I worry about other creatures looking for a warm place for the winter. Hives have been known to house mice who find their way in, for moths attracted to the warmth and darkness. At least the little fox that terrorized the hives last summer shouldn't be able to climb the deck poles.
Sometimes I am fooled by the cuteness of the bees. They are such a pleasure to watch--zooming in and out of the hive, pollen packed on their skinny leg-strings. If they sense I am close, they peer out between the bars or amble out the front door to investigate. I have to remind myself, they are out to get me, even willing to give up their lives to defend the brood and the honey. It would be a deception to think we have a symbiotic relationship. I am the enemy. They have no conception of how they are cared for.
I think the same thing can be said for us.
Our dear friend recently had a life-at-risk brain surgery. Her loved ones, her friends, we all did what we could which was so little. We prayed, fasted, gave gifts of encouragement, arranged for a meal schedule over the next few months of therapy and recovery. We stayed away from the hospital while she recovered in ICU. Finally, I saw her.
She was so little sitting on her big comfy bed, not allowed to get off without help. She was beautiful, childlike, full of love and appreciation. She showed me her purple heart head staples.
She had been tucked, wrapped, and labored over, even attended to by powers unknown and unseen. The surgery was a success. She will recover completely.
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