Heckled

   













     I was recently heckled at a ladies' gardening club. 
   "What about the weeds?" An old woman narrowed her eyes in contempt, as if I had spoken unholy words.
    "I'm sorry?" I asked.
     "What about the weeds I said!"
     "What would you like to know about them?"
     "You used the word "natural."  A natural garden will just fill up with weeds."
     I rewound my thoughts.  "Yes, good point, a weed management program is necessary to maintain any sort of garden.  I am speaking today on garden design that is not formal.  "Natural" does not mean you allow the weeds to take over."
     She said no more but her expression did not convey satisfaction.  Perhaps she was just displeased with the lunch options.
     I concluded my lecture without further complaints, although another woman left early (not before noisily bundling some brownish cookies into a paper napkin) and there was a couple in the back row who chatted furiously throughout, their heads bobbing like a pair of tweedling sparrows.
     Public speaking is not without entanglements.  Many people I know are terrified of facing a group and opening their mouth at the same time, insisting that they'd rather take a sharp stick in the eye, but giving a horticulture presentation is one of my favorite things to do.  The process combines some of my best creative skills:  writing, photography, verbalizing ideas, and sarcasm.  
     Crafting an engaging garden lecture is no different from telling a good story, as long as the story is told by someone who is recommending horse shit, not selling it.  
     Over time, gardeners naturally become good skeptics.  They've heard a zillion claims and tried as many gimmicks.  Say "Meadow in a Can" to a room full of knowing gardeners and you are guaranteed to get a laugh. 
     I once attended a garden convention where a man was marketing a "microbial caffeinated soil enhancer." 
     "Why caffeine?" I asked.
     "Because it wakes up the beneficial bacteria and gets them off to a fast start."
     There was some horseshit I wasn't buying.




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September Swarm

Photo by Shane VanOosterhout

   On September eleven my honeybees swarmed.  I got the news from my father who casually mentioned something about seeing a "bee house in the trees."  Vaguely worded, but I know how to decipher.

     "Which trees?"  I asked, a sick feeling in my gut.

     "The pines."

     "Which pines?  We have lots of them."

     "By the chicken pen."

      I walked outside to discover a few thousand bees settling on a pine bough eight feet off the ground.  I felt dishonored -- they could have at least waited until next spring to pioneer.  After all, I had given them a deluxe home, hand built from cedar, covered by a pitched copper roof. 
     People say honeybees swarm when their hive is crowded. My hive was half full.  As I lamented the hubris of my bees I recited from memory an old nursery rhyme: 

A swarm of bees in May
Is worth a load of hay;
A swarm of bees in June
Is worth a silver spoon;
A swarm of bees in July
Is not worth a fly.

*A swarm of bees in September

Will be dead by December.

*Last two lines author's addition

    I photographed the swarm, then consulted my library of beekeeping materials.  Could I intervene and save these feckless bees from their suicide mission? 
     Fortunately, swarms typically linger in one spot for several days while scout bees check out the real estate. The next morning the swarm remained intact, swaying gently like an enormous flower bud on the end of its stem.  
     I severed the pine branch and dumped the cluster of bees into a tall plastic container.  After knocking off the last bees I laid the branch across the top of the container and closed the lid, leaving a half inch space for the bees to come and go while collecting pollen and nectar. They buzzed in baritone.  Some of the guard bees flew in defensive loops around my head and chest as if to say, "I have my eyes on you, fella."
     For seventy-five dollars I purchased a nucleus box made from pine, and two pounds of fresh pollen cake. (If you are wondering, yes I sampled the sticky amber-colored pollen cake -- it tastes subtly of flowers). The bars in the nucleus were treated with pure lemongrass oil, an odor honeybees find irresistible, as do I. 

Photo by Shane VanOosterhout

      When I transferred the bees from the plastic container into the nuc I was amazed to discover a yellow crescent of honeycomb hanging from the branch. Nearly a foot in length and four inches at its peak it had been fabricated in only five days.  In the warmth of my hand, liquid honey made almost entirely of fresh pine sap and emergency sugar pooled on my fingers, which ended up in my mouth.  Pine flavored honey is an unexpected delight.
      Happily, the original colony seemed to recover nicely from its sudden population decline.  A new queen successfully established -- although I have not yet seen her -- thus keeping the hive from falling into chaos.  Guard bees are actively kicking out the lazy male drones and ruthlessly fighting off mercenary fall yellow jackets that occasionally invade the hive to steal precious honey.
     The nuc is also doing well.  Even after several frosts there is an ample supply of pollen on my property due to my expert gardening and cultivation practices.  A wealth of golden rod, asters and native perennial sunflowers provide the foraging bees enough pollen to take to the nuc, their hind legs stuffed with bright yellow balls of powder, the magical stuff of life.