Katie George - Workshop 4

Sweet as Honey

They swarmed from all sides and only a thin screen separated me from these ferocious creatures. I had taken what was theirs, and by natural instinct, they wanted it back. But I had seen all of this happen many times before, and at this point, I was not worried like I was the first time. The creatures would forgive and continue on with their everyday tasks, of which we were currently reaping the benefits. So instead of panicking, I closed my eyes and allowed my other senses to take reign. The buzzing of the thousands of bees created an electric pulse through the air, one that reverberated through the ears, making all other sound retreat. They hummed in anger, for they too could smell the floral sweetness of their honey we were extracting; the atmosphere was vaporized sugar, sickly sweet. And the air flowed to the rhythm of the beating of the bee’s wings. It created a current as strong as their desire to reclaim their prize and the vibrations caused the skin to prickle as if they still found a way, despite the barrier, to sting us on those summer days extracting honey.

My dad kept bees for most of my childhood, that is until we moved to a residential neighborhood. That old house, however, was the perfect place for my dad to start his hobby. We had plenty of land and fields upon fields of wildflowers to feed the creatures. He mail ordered the bees and set up the hives way up on the hill at least a quarter mile back. I’m not too sure if he really knew what he was doing and what he had gotten himself into at first, but I do know that he loved those bees and gave them the utmost care, studying their habits and movements and spending hours just observing their beauty.

I, however, wasn’t so fond of the things. To six year old me, bees only meant one thing: they fly in your face and sting you and have absolutely no intention but to be as annoying as possible. I swatted the air the second the buzzing reached my ears and cried when I got what I probably deserved. They were evil, I claimed, and all they want to do was hurt me. I worried when my dad went to take care of those monsters and check the hives. “Can they still sting you?” I asked as he pulled on the white protective suit and the bulbous, netted helmet. “Yes,” he always answered, “but it doesn’t bother me. Bees are protective so that’s just what they do.”

But as the summer progressed and those bees laboriously went about their daily lives, collecting pollen and making honey, my dad was excited to finally say that it was time to collect the honey. And during this first experience, I began to finally change my views about the bees.

The process of extracting honey required commitment and was a sticky, tedious, all day affair that took place on our old screened-in porch. I was quite young so my involvement was limited and my attempts to help probably slowed down the process, but my parents were patient. They guided me through the steps, gave me some hands-on experience, and even through this limited participation, I established strong memories and appreciations.

We brought in the hives, which had been emptied by blowing wood smoke into them. This process calmed the bees and allowed them to easily be brushed away off the honeycomb. The hives were wooden boxes each containing several wooden frames in which bees made the honeycomb that stored the honey. When full, the bees capped off the honey with a thick layer of wax. The first step was to remove this cap with a special electric metal knife that heated up and sliced right through it. As I held the knife, my dad guided my hand upward under the wax and I saw, as the ugly crust was removed, an interior of liquid gold that, with the help of the knife’s heat, instantly oozed down into the catch bucket underneath. The honey dribbled down in satiny ribbons, reflecting the sun in shards of glistening light while releasing a smell like candy-coated flowers.

It was during this time that I got my first taste of fresh honey. I popped the chucks of syrup soaked wax into my mouth and my tongue pressed the piece to the roof of my mouth to squeeze the honey from depths of the catacombs that encased it. It was warm and sticky and dripped from the corners of my lips when I chewed every drop from the wax. The taste exceeded that of any honey bought from the store, although it was not until much later that I really appreciated that fact. But I was discovering there is just something about food taken directly from the source and eaten straight away, like vegetables from a garden, which is truly exquisite. I was literally consuming a miracle product that contained the nectar from the flowers in our own yard, produced by our own bees, and harvested by my own hands. It was the pure essence of nature in my mouth, the best taste of all.

Once all of the frames had the wax removed, we placed them into an extractor, a machine that whips the frames around in a circle and allows for centripetal force to separate the honey from the comb where it collects into a basin below. While the spinning frames spewed the scent of the honey into the air, the bees, attracted by the smell of their creation, immediately swarmed the porch in rage. They remained as we finished extracting and began straining all of the collected honey through a fine mesh cloth to remove any debris. What remained was the clearest glossy substance that temped all of us to dip our fingers into the amber liquor for just one more taste.

We ended the day exhausted with sticky fingers and shoes and sugar shock, but we were satisfied. Around us were the fruits of our day’s labor. We would give it to our friends, spread it on toast, and enter it in the county fair, thanking the bees every step of the way. And by the time we cleaned up, the creatures began to retreat, their grudges ending and waiting for my dad to replace the frames, and let them begin their process again, with plenty of time to build their winter food storage. They accepted the rules of reciprocity that for provided shelter, they must give up their prize product once a year. And just as like the bees came to terms with the day’s upsetting turn of events, I began to come to terms with the bees.

I started to really look at these insects and see their distinct beauty. The delicate ways in which they select the flowers, harvest the pollen and nectar, and painstakingly create the hives, not only for their honey but for their families, are all so important in the creation of that sublime syrup that many take for granted. The effort that we make to extract this honey is in no way comparable to the effort that the bees make to create it. This is their job and this is what they spend their entire lives doing unthinkingly and I then recognized that is this entirely their right to get protective when humans disturb that task. Now when I see people panic and swat at the creatures with intention to kill, I feel the need to stop them and tell them what my dad always told me, “If you don’t bother them, they won’t bother you.” It is our job to let them carry on with their activities in a natural way and to please them by not interfering. It does no good to fear the bees and instead we should rejoice in their presence, as I learned to do through each subsequent extracting session.

Through my exposure to this amazing art of beekeeping I have established memories that will last forever of time spent with my family and of a process that most people will never experience – one that I probably won’t ever experience again. I have also gained massive appreciation for the natural word and the creatures within it, especially the bees. Now, every passing bee I see does not send me into a panic, but fills my heart with a feeling of respect and of memories that circulate through me in waves and currents, like the pulsing hum of the honeybee’s buzz.