Living Among the Bees

Scattered along a gently sloping hill on our farm is a series of white wooden boxes that resemble fallen tiles from a game of giant dominos. The boxes arrived one spring six years ago in an old pickup truck driven by Ed Yoder, a longtime neighbor and beekeeper who sells his honey at local supermarkets. Always searching for open land in this county of dwindling farms, Ed approached my husband and me, asking whether we would mind having some hives on our property. Since we didn’t, 20 of them—home to about a million bees—came to share our 135 acres. At least that’s how we described it initially. In reality, we’ve come to understand, it is the bees who have consented to share their workspace with us, and we, clumsy and often inadvertently destructive humans, are the better for it.

Our coexistence did not get off to an auspicious start. Shortly after the bees moved in, I began, as I always do in spring, spending most of my free time in the vegetable garden—tilling the raised beds, pulling early weeds and carrying out flats of plants started in the greenhouse some 50 feet away. The bees, I quickly learned, disapproved of my activity. They had claimed this formerly quiet area as their own. They had chosen well, packed as the garden was with nectar-dripping flowers and fruit trees in brilliant bloom, a veritable juice bar that they frequented from early to late.

Each of my trips into the garden brought an angry protest as dozens of them dive-bombed my head, just as barn swallows do to cats when their territory is encroached upon. I had always found that funny, but being the victim myself was eminently less amusing. I tried varying the hours that I gardened; I tried apologizing to the bees each time I walked in; I even tried singing to them—all to no avail. Whether I was early or late, contrite or in song, the bees were piqued to see me, a fact made clear by the number of welts on various parts of my body. After six stings, I’d had enough.

“Ed,” I complained on the beekeeper’s next visit, “every time I go into the vegetable garden, your bees sting me. Something’s got to give.” He returned my gaze, his sympathy evident. “Of course, they sting you,” he said after a long silence. “You’re walking right into their flight path.”

And so began my real experience of living with the bees and their fiercely protective keeper. I quickly learned that Ed’s devotion was complete, his concern solely for them. Implicit in his reply was the suggestion that I, and not the bees, was at fault for getting stung. Only after I pointed out that the garden had been there longer than the hives and that it wasn’t feasible to move the orchard did he agree to move the hives that were closest to the garden—a concession I’m sure he secretly regrets even today.

That was the only disagreement we’ve ever had, and perhaps if I had avoided the garden for a while, as Ed bluntly suggested, the problem would have resolved itself. In retrospect, perhaps the bees, like people moving into a new neighborhood, needed some time to settle in without the threat of interference. In any event, they have long since accepted my presence, whether I am picking raspberries, walking on the road back to our nursery—a trip that takes me within 10 feet of some of the hives—or simply sitting beside a hive for long stretches, watching the bees come and go. I’ve never again been stung, not when I’ve scooped some into my hand to rescue them from drowning in the birdbath or when I’ve picked them up, so covered with pollen they couldn’t fly, to avoid someone trampling them. Ed says that the bees have come to trust me, and I believe that I, in turn, have given them my trust.

As wonderful as watching the bees is watching Ed, who is an old-fashioned suitor. He visits the bees almost every day, wooing them with presents, fixing things, delighting in the offerings they give back to him. When he has to disturb the bees, he calms them first, moving among them with his smoker like a priest with incense burners. Loquacious by nature, Ed can spend the day talking about his charges: waxing on about their cleanliness, their loyalty to their queen, their industriousness. Ed’s love is infectious. We felt no small amount of pride when he told us after the first year’s harvest that their honey production increased dramatically since the bees moved to our farm, certain that our unsprayed fields and flower gardens were responsible. We mourned with him when he lost many of his colonies to mites several years ago and others to a harsh winter. And we have done things that we would never have contemplated, like plowing up a few acres to plant clover, because Ed told us that the bees would love it.

As with any good teachers, the bees have made me see things in a new light. About a half a mile from the hives is a small, perpetually muddy bog with a boardwalk of old heart pine running through it. In early spring, when the skunk cabbage blooms, I find bees there by the thousands, humming happily and drinking greedily. It is, I now know, their first source of nectar in spring. I am glad, and wiser, to know that the skunk cabbages, which always make my nose wrinkle, are to bees what poached strawberries are to me: both a delectable perfume and a welcome harbinger of spring.

The bees’ contributions to the farm are everywhere. Berry bushes that bore modestly before the bees’ arrival now hang heavy with fruit; my vegetable plants produce an embarrassing abundance of heirloom squash, cucumbers and runner beans.Even seemingly barren fruit trees, far from the house and orchard in what were once cow pastures, have suddenly begun producing again. And, of course, there is the honey itself, velvety brown and perfectly sweet, dissolving in my tea and rippling across my bread. None of this is my work; it is all the bees’ doing, and in that, I have found wonder, gratitude and a welcome sense of my own very modest place in the world.

LUCIE’S HONEY-SWEETENED BANANA BREAD
Serves 16

1 cup unbleached white flour
1 cup whole wheat flour
1⁄4 cup raw wheat germ
1⁄2 tsp. salt
1 tsp. baking soda
8 Tbs. (1 stick) unsalted butter
3⁄4 cup golden honey
2 large eggs, beaten
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1 cup mashed very ripe bananas
1⁄2 cup chopped nuts, such as walnuts
1⁄2 cup chopped dates or apricots

1. Preheat oven to 325F. Butter and flour a 9x5-inch loaf pan.
2. Combine flours, wheat germ, salt and baking soda in mixing bowl; set aside. Melt butter in saucepan, and add honey; remove from heat, and mix well. Add eggs, vanilla and bananas to honey mixture, stirring until well mixed. Stir in dry ingredients, nuts and fruit. Pour into loaf pan.
3. Bake 1 hour and 10 minutes, or until golden and toothpick inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on rack. Wrap well and store 1 day before slicing.

PER SERVING: 220 CAL; 4G PROT; 9G TOTAL FAT (4G SAT. FAT); 33G CARB; 40MG CHOL; 200MG SOD; 2G FIBER; 18G SUGARS