The Top Bar Hives are Finished (Almost)

The top bar hives that my DH has been working on all spring are done, just in time for the bees' arrival yesterday, but more on that later.

Today, I thought I'd show you some photos of the project that has been occupying so much of our time and energy for the last few months.

As you can see, the beehives were a family affair with everyone getting to do something. Even the littlest squirt got to glue in biscuit joiners and do lots and lots of painting.

Of course, the results were not always up to my husband's more exacting standard of work. The paint job in particular looks like it was done by a two-year old -- because it kind of was.

The boys sometimes really surprised us with some excellent skills. This was their first time chiselling, and our firstborn in particular did a super nice job. Even better than his (ahem) old man. (Sorry, honey, but you did an awesome job overall.)

Of course, DH insisted that we inscribe some messages to "encourage" the bees to do their very best. His messages tended to have a socialist bent like "Gather nectar for a better tomorrow" and "Honey & Life!" Some of them bordered on cult-like (Praise to the Great and Glorious Keeper!)

By contrast, my inscriptions were much more commercialistic and jingly -- Got Nectar?, Don't Bee Evil, Happy Hour at the Top Bar!, etc. I suggested that we should keep notes and see whether the communist or free market hive performed better, but alas, as it turned out we only got one of the hives we ordered. But again, more on that in the next post.

So anyway... Drum roll please.... It's time for the big reveal.

Ta-da! Aren't they bee-utiful? DH did a fantastic job, I think. The hives even have doors on the sides that open up to observation windows so that I can watch the bees inside the hives. Plus the bottoms are screened with a trap door that opens so that debris can fall out, or to allow extra ventilation on super hot days.

One of the boys christened the hives Earth and Water. So I guess DH will have to work on Air and Fire next spring.

Oh right. I almost forgot. The title of this post indicates that they're not quite finished. I suppose I should explain that. We're waiting for some small Pennsylvania Dutch hex signs to arrive, and those will be the finishing touch above the entrances. Every barn should have an ornament, right? Even a honey barn.

Barefoot in the Park

Today was a welcome respite from the seemingly non-stop rain we've been having. To celebrate, the kids and I took a walk through Elizabeth Park, which boasts "the oldest municipally operated rose garden in the country."

We couldn't have picked a better day for it. The blooms were glorious. And even though the trellised roses haven't opened yet, they have lots of buds on them, so we'll have to go back again soon.

However, this is the thing I wanted to share. This weathered old bench seemed so lonely to me. In a park that is otherwise immaculately groomed, this bench stands out for its neglect. It looks like it will be swallowed up soon.

The bench bears a plaque dedicating it to the memory of Frances Perelman. Who was she?



In my mind, I picture a silvery-haired lady, but beyond that, I can't imagine. Was she shy, sassy, wry? Was she short, tall, slim, pudgy? Did she wear glasses? I don't think she came to the garden alone -- at least not usually. I think she came with someone special because somebody loved her enough to want her name to be remembered. I try to picture Frances, but the only thing I really understand about her is why she liked this quiet corner tucked away in its shady place.

Weeds poke up through the slats that form the bench, but I make the kids sit for a spell. I take a seat, too. I can't really explain why this is important to me except that she was important to someone and brightened the world for a time. That seems reason enough.

My Inner Control Freak is Freaking

Last week, I wrote about a sprained ankle. It turns out that I was completely wrong. On Monday, I suspected something was amiss because my foot was still swollen, numb, and painfully cold. A quick trip to our local walk-in clinic confirmed I was right. I had fractured my fibula. (Sigh...) Sometimes, I hate being right.

Wednesday, my orthopedist assured me that it was "a good break to have. At least it was good for [me], but bad for [him]." (Hmmm... I'm glad he went into medicine and not comedy.) In any case, I won't require surgery, and I should even be able to drive again in a couple of weeks. He gave me a boot because every girl wants new shoes and some Vicodin for the pain before letting me hobble on my merry way. (Note: I've been taking only half a tablet before bedtime because I'm not sure being stoned with a toddler at home is a great idea. Plus, they're not nearly as much fun as Dr. House makes them seem.)

Altogether, the prognosis is really good, but my inner control freak is still freaking out a little bit. Tomorrow, we're having a party at our house, and lots of things I would normally have done -- like cleaning windows and light fixtures, shampooing rugs and couches, wiping shutters, cleaning moss off the patio, etc. --  just aren't happening. I simply can't do them with my bum leg.

(BTW -- lest one jump to the wrong conclusion and think that I'm a neat freak -- I'm not. By nature, I'm a slob. But I'm also detail-oriented. How one person can be both is a conundrum, I know.)

I'm also frustrated by having to rely on my kids and husband for all kinds of chores like taking laundry up and downstairs, shopping, emptying the dishwasher, and so on. I'm grateful for their help, but sometimes it's frustrating having to wait for them. Also, my inner control gets a little cuckoo when things aren't done my usual way, aka "the right way." For instance, I have this thing about my knives. I like them to be washed by hand, towel dried, and then placed into their own special slots in the knife block. Serrated knives on the left. Non-serrated on the right. In order of widest blades on top to narrowest blades at the bottom. See what I mean? It's a sickness. I have to consciously just let it go and be grateful they're put away at all when I see knives sticking out of any wacky slot.

Maybe that's the lesson I have to learn from this experience. I need to just relax and let go of stuff. In fact, that's kind of been the question of the week -- Is this really important? Will there be gossip if I don't shine every crystal on every light? Will the couch stop working if it doesn't get shampooed? Will anyone spend the entire party inspecting shutters? Will people be licking food off the patio floor?

And the first question has led to a second one. Why are so many of these things important to me in the first place? It's obvious that Mr. Clean doesn't live here, but nobody is going to pick up some weird bacteria either. So I have to conclude that the health, safety, and comfort of my company aren't the issue.

I love to blame what I've dubbed "the Martha Stewart phenomenon." There are all these media sites that tell you how to have the perfect gathering. They have some great ideas, but sometimes they create impossible standards for hosts and unrealistic expectations for guests. However, in this case, I'm not sure that media is entirely at fault. I've come to realize that I'm a control freak because 1) I get to wield a kind of power over my environment and 2) it's a way to control other people's perceptions of me. I suppose the first reason is ok. I mean, having the knives in place really does save time by making it easier to grab the right one. But I'm not so sure I like the second reason. I'm not even close to having my stuff together. I have bad days. If I'm worried about what people think, I can't enjoy them nearly as much as I should. ;-)

So it's not easy, but I'm learning to control my inner control freak. This past week, I've been gimping around in pajamas all day long,  shoving stuff into closets without bothering about where they should really go, taking naps when I should be scrubbing toilets... I've been a perfect hedonist!

As for tomorrow, my plan is to make sure that the main rooms on the main floor of our house are relatively tidy and just close the door on everything else. Then I will breathe deeply while counting to ten and welcome my guests with a smile. Cool. Collected. Controlled. Sort of.

My Early Bit of Heaven

Sometimes I write because I'm inspired. Sometimes I write because I'm bored. Today is a "bored" day because my doctor-husband says I'm not supposed to move from the couch.

Two days ago, I was carrying a chair to the backyard when I tripped and badly sprained my ankle. If I could've reached my cell phone, I'd have taken a photo of it because it was at least the size of a small grapefruit. However, this post shall remain photo-less because I didn't want to trouble my family about doing yet another thing for me. You'll just have to take my word for it that it was impressive.

Normally, I'd be delighted to get out of housework, but not so much today. Because of the crutches, I've discovered muscles that haven't worked in a decade, and they're staging a revolt against the sudden abuse they've received. My DH asked me what I wanted for breakfast today, and truly, my dearest wish was for two ibuprofen and a glass of wine.

The really touching thing about being laid up, though, is how wonderful my family has been. My husband has taken over most of the things I normally do. To cheer me up, he even brought me the world's best falafel and spicy gigantes from my favorite Lebanese place. My kids are picking up messes, covering me with blankets, and chastising me every time I stand up. My oldest did a load of wash this morning. Even the littlest one did me a huge service. She saved me from being stranded out in the backyard when I had my original spill. She ran to the house for help, and when none was forthcoming (because they couldn't hear her knocking), she lugged a shovel back for me to lean on.

I have a crazy number of things going on this week (kids' activities, work, big birthday bash, company, etc.), so I can't think of a worse time to be crippled by a swollen foot. However, it's a great time to have a heart swollen with thankfulness for my fantastic family that has been taking such good care of me. One of my favorite writers, George Bernard Shaw said "A happy family is an earlier heaven." So is a loving one. I love them dearly. Even more than painkillers.

Life Explodes in My Kitchen

It's 7.51 am. I have exactly 4 minutes to finish blending my banana-pineapple-spinach smoothie (which is tastier than it sounds) and hustle the kids into the car so that I can drop the girl off at my friend's house and be at their school for an 8:15 meeting.

Moving from the house to the car always seems to be the critical moment for us, so of course, this has to be when things decide go from slightly messed up to completely pear-shaped. I've chucked too large a piece of pineapple into the blender, and it just won't liquefy. (Who knew 1/8th of a pineapple would be too big?) I fish it out of the blender and chop it into smaller pieces. Just as I turn around to add it back into the mix, I see my daughter. She's climbed a step stool  and her curious fingers are reaching for the on/off switch. And the cover is still on the counter.

"Nooooooooooooo..." Just like in the movies, I hear myself frantically warning her to stop as I lunge in slow motion toward the mixer. Too late. Green liquid churns and surges at turbo-blend speed then erupts into the air. It covers the ceiling, the walls, the counter, the floor, and my surprised two-year old.

That's when my daughter turns her face toward me, and I read the various emotions in her enormous saucer-eyes. There is unhappiness at being assaulted by a health drink, but also fear she might be in trouble for the mess. She appears so small, so vulnerable and sweet that it takes me by surprise. In that instant, both love for her and laughter at the situation bubble up inside me.

I quickly assure her it was just an accident, and my good husband kindly whisks her off for a change of clothing while I mop up the counter.

All day, though, I've been thinking about this, though. I never had these kinds of messes before children entered by life, but now I do. Frequently.

I guess my lesson learned for today is that life is messy, so I'd better go with it. Also, there is the obvious corollary -- never let a toddler near an uncovered blender.

I See You

A couple of weeks ago, I had a conversation with a friend of mine that I hadn't had a chance to talk with for a while. We go way back -- to the carefree days before being married with kids. I can't remember the last time I laughed so much in one sitting. At one point during our conversation, though, she stopped and said, "You're such a hoot! Do you remember when you..." Then she proceeded to recount various wacky things I'd said in the past. I'd completely forgotten, but she remembered.

Most of the time in my house, I feel my husband is the one with a sense of humor. I'm just the nudge who makes you eat vegetables, take baths, and who grunts like Marge Simpson in disapproval. It's nice, though, to have someone remember who you are inside. Who remembers that you can also be droll and unconventional and even downright silly.

And the great thing is that I remember all kinds of wonderful things about her, too. Sometimes I think that's the essence of a really great friendship. Knowing and being known -- and being able to laugh like a couple of lunatics.

Can't Hardly Wait!

Maybe it's because I'm an early bird that I'm always so relieved once January is over and the days start getting longer again. But this year, it seems that warm weather just can't come fast enough. And I know the reason why. This spring, I'm getting beehives!!!

Meanwhile, today, I had a wonderful time taking the New Beekeepers class with the CT Beekeeper's Association. Doesn't it look like a perfect day to indulge daydreams of summer?

I can't explain why I want a hive, but I've always liked bees. Of course, honey is a very special thing all on its own. My first honey memory is from about kindergarten or the first grade. (I can't remember the year, but I remember crying about being forced to wear an "ugly" black velvet dress with a white satin collar instead of the crazy color combo I wanted.)

Anyway, midway through December, my Uncle Neal sent us a package wrapped in brown paper for Christmas, and we were all trying to guess what it contained. Then on the big day, it was one of the very last gifts we opened. My sister and I watched my parents carefully pull the paper away from the box, which only seemed to contain even more paper, lots and lots of paper. But nestled inside all this wadding was a jar of honey that he'd harvested from his own bees. I remember feeling a kind of wonderment and awe at this amber liquid. At the time, I don't think I could have explained what made it so special, how it represented the best of summer in a bottle. But between the scrummyumptious butter and honey sandwiches, a light bulb went on in my tiny brain. I realized that someone could actually keep bees.

My desire for a hive goes deeper than just honey, though. I just like bees. When I was about 8 or 9, I used to sit on the walkway to our front door during the summer and wait for honeybees to collect nectar from my dad's garden. Then I'd very gently, very softly stroke their fuzzy backs. I knew they weren't tame or pets -- but I still considered them like good friends come to visit.

Several years ago, my dear friend Jodi at Curious Acorn started keeping hives, and I've been completely jealous vicariously enjoying them ever since. However, with all the bear traffic through our yard (and periodically garage) in Jersey, I never dared keep bees there. In the new house, though, the biggest animals I've seen have been foxes, and I don't think they like honey. So this is it. I'm starting an apiary.

In the meantime, nothing is getting done at home because I spend day and night researching all about bees. My family rolls their eyes every time I say, "Do you want to hear something cool?" because they know some factoid about Apis mellifera is coming up next. If only that could be a Jeopardy category...

My DH has been co-opted graciously offered to build my hives. (Instead of Langstroth hives, I want Kenyan  top bar hives, but that will be a post for another day, I think.) To keep him focused, I've been sorting through the garage, which hasn't really been touched since the movers dumped a bazillion boxes in it last August. I also keep "reminding" him of his deadline like a little kid that really wants a toy. Truly, this is becoming worse than waiting for Christmas ever was.

How many weeks is it until May? Fingers crossed that I don't burst before then.