Introducing the Hive

All my life I wanted bees. As a child my eyes would scan the countryside on road trips, seeking out those colorful and seemingly abandoned boxes at the edges of fields. I wondered about the people in the strange white suits, the suits that made them look like astronauts and they almost seemed to float as well, in a puff of smoke and a swarm of bees around their heads. I dreamed of having my own apiary. I’d paint flowers on the sides and they’d live in the tall grass at the end of a long, foot-worn path.

When I was first dating my husband in college, my bee fascination was just an endearing quirk. An endearing quirk he endured for years. And years. But, talking about keeping bees someday was always just talk when living in a rented home by the side of a lake or a 6th floor apartment in the city. It wasn’t until we bought our suburban home, with a strip of grass that stretched on the far side, hidden by a wooden fence, useless for anything but bees, that my husband started to understand that I really meant to keep them. I devoured books on beekeeping. He placated me with chickens. I adore my chickens. I started volunteering on a farm and got the name of a local beekeeper, as well as email address and prices. My husband laid out every reason why we couldn’t have bees. I bought a hive, a smoker and a bee suit. In December I put a deposit down on a nuc, which is a small hive box consisting of a queen and a few thousand workers. In March I assembled and painted the hive. In April I received an email that my bees were ready to be picked up.

We decided that picking up the bees was an event the whole family should be a part of, though having no idea what to expect, we decided to take two cars. My husband took the dog in his sedan, and I, pregnant with our 3rd child, took our 2 daughters in our suv. Don, our bee dealer, as we affectionately referred to him, lived on a residential street with neighbors on 3 sides which made me feel much more confident about putting our own hive in a residential area. He took me around back where his yard was like a fairy garden. Dozens of hives and nuc boxes were spread out all over with knee high picket fences weaving around like a maze. I felt like Alice in Wonderland grown 20 feet tall as I stepped over and around the little village of nucs, arriving at my own. It was blue. Don puffed a cloud of smoke around the entrance to calm the bees, plugged it closed, and carried it to my car. My husband asked if it was safe for the girls and me to be driving with bees in the car, to which Don only grunted that he couldn’t account for the other drivers on the road, and we said our goodbyes. We made it home without incident, and as I carried the nuc around back to where my hive was waiting, I was amazed at how quiet the bees were.

The next day I had to transfer the ten frames full of bees from the nuc box, to my 20-frame hive box. My husband would be at work until dark, so I put my daughters down for their afternoon nap, suited up, lit the smoker, took 2 deep breaths and charged off to take care of business. I puffed some smoke around and took off the outer and inner lids of my hive box and removed 10 empty frames to make space. I puffed some smoke around. I removed the outer lid of the nuc box. I puffed some smoke around. I pried off the inner lid of the nuc box, and it. was. LOUD. A terrifying symphony of thousands of buzzing female bees dedicated only to the protection of their queen. A buzzing so loud it was deafening. It was an echo chamber. It was being caught at the edge of a sandbar endlessly pounded by waves. “Oh my God,” I thought. “Oh my God, I’m going to die. I’m going to die and the headlines are going to read ‘Pregnant Idiot Dies By A Thousand Bee Stings.’” My heart was fluttering and my ears went numb, a panic attack was imminent. I grabbed the smoker and ran, turned a corner into the main part of the yard and wondered when was the last time I took a breath. I took a breath. I considered putting the lids back on and trying again later, but as I regained control of my faculties I realized that would only serve to make them angrier.

I had to get the frames moved and I had to get them moved immediately, so clouding myself in smoke and courage I puffed my way back to the hive. I set the smoker down and went to remove the frames. I pulled on the first one, it wouldn’t budge. I tried another, it wouldn’t budge. I tried them all. Stuck together and covered in propolis and wax, not a single one would separate from another or from the box. I frantically tugged, my mind an empty space, nothing but buzzing between my ears. I don’t know how long I stood there tugging at frames, willing them to break free, when I finally remembered the hive tool in my back pocket. Slowly, knowledge and information began creeping back into the cavern of my mind as I used the hive tool to pry the frames apart one by one. Whether out loud or to myself I don’t know, but I counted them, “one out, one in, two out, two in,” until all ten frames had been moved from the nuc to the hive. I replaced the lids, I took a deep breath, and walked away.

I walked back again and took some pictures of the bees outside the hive. And walked away again. Then I went back again and took the lids off so I could take pictures of the inside of the hive. Back and forth, back and forth. I took off my gloves, I left the smoker behind. I let them land on me, get to know me. I explained to them what an adrenaline rush is, that I was experiencing one, that I could maybe lift a car. I replaced the lids again, silencing the roar of the crowd, and watched in the quiet the dancing of bees setting up house. I actually didn’t paint flowers on the sides of my hive boxes, and there was no long dirt path leading up to them, but I finally had my bees.