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."

Epiphany and Life in Three Boxes

I have never counted the epiphanies in my life. I wonder if I should be recording them; keep a record of the times grace has silently slipped into the room occupied by my mind and shone a light. After all, isn't that the description of an epiphany? The appearance of a divine entity; usually accompanied by a bright light. Your own personal deer in the headlights moment. Only you are not afraid of a semi-truck pointed in your direction. It's really much worse than that. For those less inclined to believe in a deity suddenly appearing in the middle of their daily commute, it could be an intuitive moment when a solution presents itself. A leap. Epiphanies have regularly scheduled themselves on my calendar. Evidently, I am in great need of intuitive leaps.

Today I had the leap. Three years ago, I lost a dear friend to self-neglect, fear of the unknown, and such a strong sense of self-reliance she could not call out for help. Many of us knew she was in trouble. However, we believed she would consider an intervention an invasion of her privacy, and she would retaliate by excising us from her life. So rather than anger her and risk losing her friendship, we lost her.

One brave soul took up the mantle of estate executor. We discovered the departed had hoarded so many memories within the walls of her home. Those memories included tangible items (perhaps against their will), as well as a vast number of books. It was a frightening revelation of her needs. She considered books her only friends. Friends who could never disappoint, betray, or abandon her. The executor told me she filled a large industrial dumpster almost a dozen times before the house was empty enough to clean.

My friend infected me with the book-hoarding virus. I was attending graduate school and commuted several hundred miles a week. Research on campus required a great deal of forethought and scheduling. It was easier to search for and purchase books online. My friend encouraged me in that activity, and I believed I would need those books forever. Every research topic, every graduate course required more and more books. My office became a book depository with just a narrow walkway through the boxes.

My epiphany was realizing I didn't need a thousand or more books forever. So, I finally began disposing of the majority of my book collection. I discovered a wonderful used bookstore whose owner gladly bought my books. I have sold over three hundred books in the past year. It has been torturous at times. How do you decide which child to leave on the steps of the orphanage, and which child to keep?

I love the movie "Under the Tuscan Sun." The heroine finds she must decide what personal possessions to take from her home. Finally, she points to three boxes. "Those are all I want." She is a writer, so the boxes are full of books.

Faced with the luxury of three boxes, what would my boxes contain? They would hold pictures of my children and husband. Maybe a crocheted or knitted afghan and a pair of embroidered pillowcases, an apron, and a cookbook. My book selection would include The Bible, Shakespeare's Sonnets, Thoreau, James Michener, and the Chicago Manual of Style. Perhaps a few DVDs as well for entertainment. It is a brave thing to reduce life to a small circle of light. To realize what is really necessary for your mental and emotional happiness and fulfillment. It is energizing.

If you only had three boxes in which to pack your life, what would be in them? Think about it. Let me know what you decide.

The Chronicle of the Bees

I have a confession. When I was small, I caught honey bees in a jar and watched them fly about trying to escape. I have since come to my senses, repented of my sins against bees, and become a beekeeper. It is an interesting term: beekeeper. It is not the same as owning a dog or cat. Believe me, no one really "keeps" bees. In most instances, you stand by and watch the bees do their thing. You try to provide a proper place for them to colonize, build honeycomb, raise new bees, and store honey; like a beehive. At certain times of the year, depending on the weather, you provide additional nutrition, or bales of straw to protect the hive from the ravages of winter winds, which can freeze a colony in not time flat. Otherwise, they usually ignore you. I think that is a good thing, for I believe it reminds us of our place in the universe.

As a researcher, I did the usual thing and researched bees, their plight, and the joys of beekeeping before I took the plunge. I was afraid of the responsibility of "keeping" a hive of 30,000-60,000 little souls (as I thought of them). We obtained a swarm in the middle of June, which put the ladies at a disadvantage, or so we thought. However, before I continue, let me explain a few terms. Bees are female, unless they are drones. Drones impregnate the Queen, then hang around and eat until the real workers expel them from the hive in the fall. The drones have nowhere to go, and die. In beekeeping circles it is called The Massacre of the Drones. Women, even bees, are ruthless. Therefore, we refer to the colony of workers as "the ladies." Bees are dependent on pollen and nectar flows at particular times of the year. We were concerned they would not have the opportunity to build up their numbers before fall. The president of the Beekeepers Association visited our hive and pronounced everyone right on track.

I monitored their progress through weekly hive inspections and supplemental feedings. The bees were always pleasant and non-aggressive. (Wasps will sting you for no reason whatsoever; bees only sting protecting the hive.) I loved to wander out and watch them fly in and out of the hive entrance on their various errands. They ignored me, or occasionally one buzzed me to check me out. Once, while inspecting the hive a bee landed on my protective gloves and began buzzing. A very interesting, strange, and funny sensation.

They seemed to be doing well until about three weeks ago. We had a period of very low temperatures and wind. Even though I placed straw bales behind the hive in the direction of prevailing winds, the wind changed and attacked the hive from the front. To add insult to injury, the high winds blew off the top cover of the hive. During cold weather bees cluster around the Queen and maintain a temperature of around 94 degrees. Extremely cold temperatures and my inexperience may have seriously damaged the colony.

I am now waiting to see if the little ladies survived. There is nothing I can do. If they did survive, they will emerge one warm spring day. If not, I will clean out the hive and start over. It is Nature. I will be sad, but I know others have lost hives as well. I will continue to update their status as time goes on.

I have become more fully aware of the importance of the honey bee. At least one of every three bites of food we consume is the result of pollination by honey bees, or other varieties of pollinators. I will leave my editorial on the loss of the honey bee and its consequences for another day. However, I encourage you to plant a few bee-friendly flowers this spring. There are numerous Internet sites listing plantings for bee and butterfly gardens. Catch the buzz. Respect the Queen. Keep the little ladies flying.

Karma Pictures Continued

While blogging about my own karma pic I mentioned my sister. She is an interesting study. Seven years separate us with me in the lead. Like all younger siblings, she complains that there are more pictures of me than her. That is logical, as I have been camera fodder longer than she has.

As a child she did not care for sand, wind, and sun. She insisted on wearing sunglasses to ward off the evil sun and a hat to keep her hair neat. Sand was her worst enemy. My dad enjoyed camping vacations near water. Usually if there is water there is sand, especially along the Atlantic Coast.

Dad snapped the picture of SisterBee and MotherBee on Daytona Beach, Florida. Our dad believed it would be great to go to Florida during Easter vacation. Fortunately, my vacation schedule did not coincide with Spring Break or we would have been miserable.

That winter reminds me of our current weather situation. It is cold everywhere, even in Florida. A strong onshore breeze made the beach untenable, so Dad built a beachhead of sand to deflect the wind and give Mom an opportunity to sunbathe. I wore a sweatshirt over my swimsuit. Being young and determined, I stayed on the beach playing and even running out into the cold ocean.

However, SisterBee clung tenaciously to her beliefs. The picture says it all.

Post Script. When I returned to school following vacation no one believed I had been in Florida. They held their own beliefs, which even a suntan could not sway.

The Karma Picture

I love history. I don't believe in karma. However, I have what I consider to be my "karma picture." You know, that picture taken of you zillions of years ago showing you doing something, holding a toy, or a pet. You might be posed in front of a building, object, or monument that at the time seemed somewhat incidental and insignificant. Perhaps it's the Halloween picture of you in a fireman's costume. Today you find yourself somehow engaged in a career relative to that picture. Not making any sense? Listen up, and I'll explain.

My parents took us on a lot of vacations. My sister and I were never consulted as to destination. We just got in the backseat of the Grand Prix (1966), and looked out the windows, awaiting our fate/destination. Sometimes we counted cars or cows, along with the Burma Shave signs. We found ourselves in Florida (before Disney), Michigan, South Carolina, Maine, and Virginia. The trips were chronicled for posterity by our dad and his Kodak.

My sister hated sand in her shoes and between her toes but she especially hated the sun in her eyes. So there are many shots of her standing on various East Coast beaches dressed in her bathing suit, her feet in snow boots, wearing sunglasses. They could be considered her karma pictures as she now lives in the mountains of North Carolina, far from the seashore.

The trips were rarely history-related. Once my dad told me he had no interest whatsoever in history. So I suppose the trips to the Smithsonian were tortuous affairs for him. I, on the other hand, became a history nerd at a very early age. I watched The Liberty Tree on The Wonderful World of Disney, read Laura Ingalls Wilder, and every historical novel I could find in my local library. I grew up in the Golden Age of Television that included Bonanza, The Rifleman, Wagon Train, and every other costume drama around.

My picture was taken a little closer to home. Family members were visiting and my parents decided to take them to Gettysburg. I don't know how much of the battlefield we visited or how many times we actually got out of the car and walked around. I know for certain we exited the car on Oak Ridge; site of the opening salvos of the battle. How do I know? A picture was taken of me standing in front of the Eternal Light Peace Memorial. Technically, it is the side of the monument, not the front. Regardless, it is my karma pic.

I denied the calling of History. I entered Towson State as a Music major and left four years later a Geography and Environmental Planning major. Finally, years later I gave into Cleo, the Siren/Muse of History, and earned a degree in History; followed by a M.A. in American Studies.

About ten years ago my mother sent me the picture. As I had forgotten the visit to the Park, the picture astonished me. I showed it to a friend of mine who just smiled at me. "See, you are right where you're supposed to be." That particular day I was wearing my green and gray National Park Service-sanctioned uniform. I had been working as a seasonal ranger at Gettysburg National Military Park for two years. I served at Gettysburg for four more years before leaving to work for The National Museum of Civil War Medicine in Frederick, Maryland.

Everyone has a karma picture hidden away somewhere. Maybe you haven't recognized it just yet, but it is there. Perhaps you should sift through those boxes and albums. You just might find yourself.

"Here, these are yours."

Several years ago, my mother gave me three boxes from her basement. "Here, these are yours," was the verbal decree. I took them home and put them in the attic. I was really not interested in their contents. Two weeks ago, I was in my perpetual attic-cleaning mode when I found them. I untied the discolored cord and opened the first carton. Inside were several hard-backed composition books, the kind I still look for every fall when school begins.

I opened the first book to discover it contained mimeographed pictures I had colored...in the first grade. Now you must understand I had unwittingly stumbled upon an ancient repository. You also need to put this in context. I was born mid-twentieth century, and have quite a few years behind me. Therefore, much like the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, this was old stuff. Trust me. I stared at the pages; every single page had a neatly pasted drawing of a cabbage, rabbit, dog, or flower. I must admit it appeared I did not subscribe to the notion of coloring within the lines. Well, I was only six.

The remaining composition books were dedicated to first grade math and some semblance of language arts. I also found a fourth-grade geography notebook containing maps of Europe and South America, all with carefully identified countries, lakes, and rivers. I remember geography class, I loved it. I had to memorize the continents, draw and label the countries. I loved drawing South America, penciling in the Amazon River and its tributaries. However, I am digressing.

The weight of my mother's commitment and actions overwhelmed me. Here was a woman who had carefully collected every math workbook, Junior Scholastic issue, and report card I ever earned, read, or ciphered. She neatly packed them away, tied the box with a cord, and wrote my name on it. We moved from the house of my elementary years to another house, where she placed the boxes on shelves in the basement. Then, bequeathed to me they were moved to my house in central PA where I put them in the attic. What a journey those little cardboard boxes have had! Think of the resources, space,energy, and fuel needed to move them sixty miles from their place of origin. I had a mental picture of the closing scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," as the Ark of the Covenant was stored in an immense warehouse. Well, not quite that large, or that important.

I looked through the boxes, saving a few pictures and an issue of Junior Scholastic highlighting the National Park Service. The rest I threw away. It is too late for me to follow my mother's example. I have already thrown away too many pictures, report cards, and Mother's Day cards made by my children. I have saved things that matter to me; little notes my daughter wrote me to encourage me during tough times, silly photos of my son. I have my memories. I do not need to collect and save the minutiae of my life or of my children. I especially do not need to burden them thirty years from now when I say, "Here, these are yours."