The Beekeeper

I was a beekeeper once. The technical term is apiarist, but we answer to beekeeper as well. I set up my starter hive in the backyard by the creek. It was far enough from the house, but the dog had to learn a few tough lessons. Keep Benadryl on hand.

I landed on Italian honeybees for my first hives. They’re like fuzzy little cows. Very docile and calm. Great producers. A “nuc” colony, I felt, was a good choice to start off. A nucleus colony is four to five frames of brood and bees, plus an actively laying queen. I suggest you buy from a local source. It’s less stressful on the bees with respect to traveling.

Probably the best part about beekeeping was the clothing. You get to dress like a very low-budget astronaut. You always wear the veil. Always. You’re dealing with up to 60,000 of those little girls. You just don’t want to risk it. Gloves and pants that you can tuck in are also essential.

Beekeeping was tough. There’s a lot of hard work before you can see a return that makes it all worth it. And if you’re in the suburbs, there’s only so much expansion you can enjoy before you run into zoning laws and other nonsense.

But all in all, I enjoyed it. Even if it was only in my imagination as I considered it for twenty-four hours. I had a blast conquering my crippling fear of flying insects that sting through the power of fantasy and thought experiment. Nothing’s actually changed, of course. Maybe some day, when I’m old and grey and my nerve endings have numbed, I’ll take it up for real. But for now, I’ll enjoy my honey sans its producers and run like a frightened rabbit if one of them gets too close.


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