I've fed the bees their last draughts of sugar syrup for the season. I'm not sure they need it, although the books and experts say they do. So I bought 15-20 lbs. of the cheapest sugar I can find, mix it 2:1 with hot water and Fumigillin -- a mild antibiotic – and dispense it via one-quart feeders that sit near the hive’s entrances.
And the bees go nuts for it. They envelop the feeders in fuzzy, soft ball-sized clusters, ecstatic with saccharine lust, maniacal for the one thing that will insure their winter survival: more honey for the hive.
I'd rather forego the antibiotic, but last year two hives contracted nosema. It's basically bee diarrhea, which means they poop themselves to death. It's as messy as it sounds, inside and outside the hive, where the mustard stains from their cleansing flights speckle the snow. Yeesh.
Still, there’s much more I could do, and most would say should do, to winterize the hives. Have I installed mouse guards? Drilled ventilation holes in the upper supers to prevent condensation? Applied miticide to kill tracheal and varroa mites? Cleaned the bottom boards? Stacked straw bales to blunt the steely knives of the north wind?
Well, uh, I do plan to put up a straw-bale windbreak.
But to paraphrase Tip O’Neil, “all beekeeping is local.” Call it a fatalistic cop-out, or a lazy man’s rationalization, but I’m not so sure that my meddling helps much. After all, the practices that some veteran beekeepers swear by others swear against. What works here doesn’t work there -- even when “there” is a mile up the road. What causes these variations? The bees or us? Perhaps what we bring to beekeeping – as with most human endeavors – is largely a mirror of our own talents, desires and peculiarities.
And the bees go nuts for it. They envelop the feeders in fuzzy, soft ball-sized clusters, ecstatic with saccharine lust, maniacal for the one thing that will insure their winter survival: more honey for the hive.
I'd rather forego the antibiotic, but last year two hives contracted nosema. It's basically bee diarrhea, which means they poop themselves to death. It's as messy as it sounds, inside and outside the hive, where the mustard stains from their cleansing flights speckle the snow. Yeesh.
Still, there’s much more I could do, and most would say should do, to winterize the hives. Have I installed mouse guards? Drilled ventilation holes in the upper supers to prevent condensation? Applied miticide to kill tracheal and varroa mites? Cleaned the bottom boards? Stacked straw bales to blunt the steely knives of the north wind?
Well, uh, I do plan to put up a straw-bale windbreak.
But to paraphrase Tip O’Neil, “all beekeeping is local.” Call it a fatalistic cop-out, or a lazy man’s rationalization, but I’m not so sure that my meddling helps much. After all, the practices that some veteran beekeepers swear by others swear against. What works here doesn’t work there -- even when “there” is a mile up the road. What causes these variations? The bees or us? Perhaps what we bring to beekeeping – as with most human endeavors – is largely a mirror of our own talents, desires and peculiarities.
As a minimalist, I am inclined to mistrust things overly mechanical and scientific. The pine-box simplicity of beekeeping, scarcely changed since the 19th century, appeals deeply to me. A hammer, some short nails and wood glue are all that’s needed to assemble a hive. A pair of cotton coveralls ($6 at Big Lots) elbow-length leather gloves and a veiled hat comprises all the necessary clothing.
But my sentimental favorite is the bee smoker. It’s like a stainless steel coffee can, with attached leather bellows and a conical lid that could’ve come straight from the Tin Woodsman’s head. Add a fistful of dry straw and it will puff away as agreeably as your grandfather’s pipe.
Nevertheless, the ways of a minimalist can also yield minimal results. This year, we gathered 40 lbs. of honey, enough to fill about that same number of 1 lb. bottles. A rigorous, meticulous beekeeper might get 6o-80 lbs. from the same three hives. How much more, though, do we actually need? We’ll keep a dozen bottles for personal use, more than enough, and sell the rest at Church sales or give it away at Christmas. (Maybe you’ll get some instead of a scarf or snowmobile socks -- you know who you are.)
The rain will meanwhile fall on the just and unjust, as St. Matthew (5:45) points out, and the inscrutable bees will fulfill their sacred duties for reasons known only to them. Yes, it’s true that skilled human intervention will usually increase their productivity. Yet in the end? No matter how much we fret and tinker – or don’t -- the honey that comes from even the humblest of hives will taste every bit as sweet.
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