Requiem for the Hive

I have an update on my bee situation. I mentioned in an earlier post that the top cover of our hive blew off during a fierce wind storm in January. I tried communicating with the ladies, but to no avail. Communication involves knocking on the hive and listening for a response (BUZZZ). Yesterday, the president of the Beekeepers Association stopped by and suggested an impromptu visit to the hive. We sloughed through the snow and Jeremy knocked, but no one answered.

Our particular colony was the product of a hive swarm. The colony becomes too large, or the queen begins to age. In an attempt to survive, she sends out a pheromone signaling a portion of the colony to fill their bellies with honey to sustain them until they begin gathering nectar again. Then the queen leaves, taking almost half the colony with her. Think self-preservation, for if the colony believes she is tired, old, or not laying a sufficient number of eggs, the colony kills and replaces her. Therefore, we had no idea as to the strength and age of our queen.

After removing the top cover, Jeremy peered down through the frames searching for signs of bee-life. Alas, the hive was silent. We began systematically removing frames and examining the evidence. It appears the ladies starved for lack of adequate honey reserves. The comb was empty of honey. Many of the bees were head-first in the comb, as though they were eating. A typical hive requires approximately sixty pounds of honey to survive the winter. While we fed them sugar syrup and fondant, it was not enough. Jeremy mentioned that when a colony begins to die, everyone dies within a few minutes. They live, work and die together. As we knocked the bees out of the frames, their carcasses blew across the snow, like scattered ashes.

While upset, I was expecting that verdict. I had a gut feeling the hive had perished. As I mentioned earlier, "keeper of bees" is an extremely inaccurate term. Bees keep themselves, we merely try to provide optimum opportunities for them to flourish and pollinate. All we ask for in return is the chance to steal a little honey now and then.

Our new colony arrives in April. We learned a great deal about bees this year. We will continue in our attempt to decipher the mysteries of the hive.

Becky Tales

I am a firm believer in celebrations. Birthday, anniversaries, graduations, all deserve to be honored. I do not believe in celebrating death, although I am a fan of graveyard art. I don't wax sad and lonely on the anniversary of my grandmother's death. I believe in the remembrance of a well-lived life. Therefore, even though today is the anniversary of a passage-I choose to revel in the well-lived life of Rebecca Ann Lyons. There is insufficient space to relate all of my experiences with Becky. I hope others take time to share their Becky Tales with me.

I met Becky Lyons in 1998. I was a shiny, newly minted and uniformed seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park. My supervisor, Pam Neil, shared an office with Becky. Honestly, the first time I met Becky I was a tad intimidated. She sat behind a huge desk loaded with books and official-looking papers. Although her eyes seemed friendly, I knew my metal was being measured and at the appointed hour would be tested. I hoped I would not be found wanting. (She later told me people always saw her as tough, but she was really a big marshmallow on the inside.) On Pam's days off, I had permission to use her desk to study and work on my programs. During those days, Becky and I talked about life, the afterlife, and history. Or should I say HISTORY. She had an extensive and expansive background that included medieval history, a field I was at that time considering for my graduate program.

That summer I decided to develop a living history program. I realized many stories were told of the valiant men who fought and died at Gettysburg, but very few stories told of the brave women who shared that history. My program, based on the life of a Daughter of Charity, became the first program at the park to highlight the work of the religious order. Becky was versed in living history, so Pam decided I should work with Becky on my research. Pam found a position at another NPS site, so Becky officially became my supervisor. She tutored me in all things related to developing a solid, believable program. Her standard comment was always: "Word choice is everything. Think before you open your mouth." Becky and I had the opportunity to present our respective programs at Ford's Theatre, in Washington, D.C. What a tremendous honor to tell our stories on that stage. Those presentations led to the organization of the First Women's History Symposium at the park.

Soon, our relationship became a friendship. Becky and I spent time walking the battlefield, eating lunch, and talking. She liked my husband and my children-a great achievement for an unmarried woman who was an only child. We exchanged presents at Christmas and birthdays. She was my friend, mentor, and sister in so many ways. I am a better person, and a much better historian for having known Becky. When I wrote the acknowledgements for my first book, I wrote "Last but not least, I am indebted to Rebecca A. Lyons, my friend and supervisor from Gettysburg National Military Park, who passed before this project was completed. Her guidance, wisdom, and humorous insight regarding the human predicament touched many lives. She will remain a constant reminder that our words and actions matter now, and in the future."