Chris and I made bee installations recently. He arrived home in the early evening from Withee, where he had picked up our order of package bees from the Kohns, and drove the truck immediately out to the bee yard. We normally hold the bees overnight before beginning installations, but Chris had been listening to the forecast. He knew that the warm dry weather we had been enjoying was going to deteriorate into several days of colder temperatures and showers mixed with snow. It would still be light for a couple of more hours, but if Chris was to be able to complete the 25 installations before dark, he would need help. Janet and I had finished our supper. I excused myself and headed to the basement for my bee suit which had been hanging on the office door since last Fall.
The screened 2# "packages" of honeybees (yep, they are sold by the pound!) arrive from California with their queen riding in a little cage suspended within. We spray them with sugar water, dump them package by package into empty hives, and release the queens. A small soy-protein patty is laid across the top bars of the combs as "bee bread" to substitute for pollen until local flowers are blooming. Over a hole in the center of the inner cover we place a half gallon pail of syrup. The cover of the pail has small holes, like a salt shaker, that retain the syrup in the inverted pail by surface tension, but allow the bees to draw out the "feed" using their hollow tongues as straws. The outer lid is placed on top of the pail to shed the rain and the bees are left to settle in for the night. By the following morning they will be re-orienting to their new surroundings.
I always imagine the bees--these small arrivals from California--appearing at the entrance of their new Wisconsin home in the morning wearing little sun glasses with a tiny surf board tucked under a wing, scratching their heads with the other wing as they look out at a field of snow wondering what happened to their beach! It must be a rude awakening!
Chris has been back working the farm for ten years now. He is no longer a novice, but a skilled beekeeper farmer. He has already hived five or six colonies by the time I get out to the yard.
"Going to get them all in tonight?," I ask.
"Got to." he replies not looking up from his work. "Thanks for coming out, Dad."
We bend to our task each knowing it well. Time is of the essence but we do not hurry. The work is steady but gentle. We work silently, neither having to instruct the other. There is no wasted movement. When we finish, the last colors of sunset are fading into dusk. Chris pops the tabs on a couple of cans and for a while longer we sit on the end-gate of the truck, contemplating our completed work and sipping beer--together.
The screened 2# "packages" of honeybees (yep, they are sold by the pound!) arrive from California with their queen riding in a little cage suspended within. We spray them with sugar water, dump them package by package into empty hives, and release the queens. A small soy-protein patty is laid across the top bars of the combs as "bee bread" to substitute for pollen until local flowers are blooming. Over a hole in the center of the inner cover we place a half gallon pail of syrup. The cover of the pail has small holes, like a salt shaker, that retain the syrup in the inverted pail by surface tension, but allow the bees to draw out the "feed" using their hollow tongues as straws. The outer lid is placed on top of the pail to shed the rain and the bees are left to settle in for the night. By the following morning they will be re-orienting to their new surroundings.
I always imagine the bees--these small arrivals from California--appearing at the entrance of their new Wisconsin home in the morning wearing little sun glasses with a tiny surf board tucked under a wing, scratching their heads with the other wing as they look out at a field of snow wondering what happened to their beach! It must be a rude awakening!
Chris has been back working the farm for ten years now. He is no longer a novice, but a skilled beekeeper farmer. He has already hived five or six colonies by the time I get out to the yard.
"Going to get them all in tonight?," I ask.
"Got to." he replies not looking up from his work. "Thanks for coming out, Dad."
We bend to our task each knowing it well. Time is of the essence but we do not hurry. The work is steady but gentle. We work silently, neither having to instruct the other. There is no wasted movement. When we finish, the last colors of sunset are fading into dusk. Chris pops the tabs on a couple of cans and for a while longer we sit on the end-gate of the truck, contemplating our completed work and sipping beer--together.
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