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    Dronings from a Queen Bee: The First Five Years
    Dronings from a Queen Bee: The First Five Years
    Dronings from a Queen Bee: The First Five Years
    Ebook170 pages3 hours

    Dronings from a Queen Bee: The First Five Years

    By Charlotte Hubbard

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    About this ebook

    In 2008, Charlotte unexpectedly and suddenly became a beekeeper. She's humorously captured anecdotes about stings and successes, interwoven with gentle observations and life reflections. Vivid color photographs provide glimpses of this fascinating insect's world, and the interplay between humans and bees. You don't have to be a beekeeper to enjoy t
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharlotte Hubbard
    Release dateAug 4, 2014
    ISBN9780991583416
    Dronings from a Queen Bee: The First Five Years
    Author

    Charlotte Hubbard

    Charlotte Hubbard considers it her personal mission to feed people-to share hearth and home. Faith and family, farming and food preservation are hallmarks of her lifestyle, and the foundation of all her Amish romance series. She's a deacon, a dedicated church musician and choir member, and when she's not writing, she loves to try new recipes, crochet, and sew. Charlotte now lives in Minnesota with her husband and their border collie.

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      Dronings from a Queen Bee - Charlotte Hubbard

      My Beekeeping Life

      The first time I pulled on a protective bee veil I thought, This is SO not right. You have to think twice if what you’re doing for fun and relaxation requires protective equipment.

      As you’ll soon read though, I didn’t have the luxury of thinking twice about keeping bees.

      While I don’t wish the circumstances that led me to beekeeping on anyone, they were a silver lining in a very dark cloud. If I hadn’t started beekeeping, I would’ve missed out on one of the best things in my life. Just last summer, I spent most of a glorious day checking hives, safely seeing everything through the screen of my protective veil. Putting on the protective bee suit had initially felt foreboding and ominous, but now I’m very comfortable with it.

      Perhaps too comfortable…

      That evening I walked outside through a sliding screen door, and by through, well, I mean through. Sure, I saw the screen in front of my face. My brain registered it as the bee veil’s screen, not the one attached to the house.

      I picked myself up off the ground, awkwardly climbing out of what was left of the bent door frame and torn screen. The bees in the backyard erupted in laughter. With nothing injured except my pride, there was nothing to do but join them.

      I strive to find the lighter side of most things, although I’ll warn you, you wouldn’t think that by reading the first essay of this collection. Some people have told me they found it quite depressing.

      If it hits you hard, I apologize, but please keep reading. It is an important part of my first five years of beekeeping. It sadly describes the end of one love story, but also launches a second one, my love affair with an insect.

      Even an insect that too often laughs at me.

      Angels with Real Wings

      Photo of Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey T-shirts used to shroud the hives the evening he died.

      Tom’s Bee-Loved Honey T-shirts were used to shroud the hives the evening he died.

      I’m a beekeeper because my husband Tom spent his life fearing all things medical. He never had regular check-ups. He ignored family history, extensive nagging, and significant signs that something was terribly wrong with his body. When he finally went to a doctor, he was diagnosed with very advanced stage IV colorectal cancer. Since it had remained undiagnosed for so long, it had evolved from a highly treatable disease to a likely fatal illness.

      Tom gave it the good fight, surpassing all estimates on life expectancy and having about as much fun as you can have with terminal cancer, but he finally flew on a sunny day in late summer, with me and our children at his side.

      Tommy left me with many things—including fantastic memories, unfinished home improvement projects, three awesome kids, and his beloved bees. Hundreds of thousands of them.

      When life gives you lemons, you’re supposed to make lemonade. When life gives you bees, they’re supposed to make honey. Tom’s bees are working on that; I’m trying to help.

      During Tommy’s battle with cancer, from February of 2008 until late August 2009, I met nurses and doctors who proved repeatedly that angels walk among us, wearing surgical scrubs and carrying charts.

      … angels walk among us, wearing protective veils and carrying smokers. Since then, I’ve met dozens of beekeepers who’ve proven repeatedly that angels walk among us, wearing protective veils and carrying smokers. These beekeepers have helped me come to peace with managing the intriguing but sometimes overwhelming gift of bees, and they’ve also helped me come to peace with issues that can’t be readily managed, like bees that don’t want to stay in their hive… or grief.

      When we were still in the throes of the battle, back in April of 2008, Tom had a second emergency surgery. Complications resulted, and during his month in the hospital, Hubby insisted I tend his bees until he could get home.

      I said sure, I’d take care of his bees until he could again, but all of us (except Tom!) knew there was no point. The oncologist projected that Tom had only a few weeks to live, possibly a month or so at the most. She didn’t want to tell him that quite yet though, not wanting to rob him of hope. She suggested we take him home to recover from surgery, and do whatever we could to make his final time on earth peaceful.

      Thinking I’d be burying my husband before the summer of 2008 even started (and really needing him to tell me a few essential things, like how to mix lawn mower gas and where the safety deposit box key was), I wasn’t happy about his spending his wee bit of energy instructing me on something I considered non-essential: assembling houses for bees. But instead of fading away like his doctors predicted, Tom instead began to shine. In his quest to fiddle with his bees, he gained weight instead of losing it, and climbed the stairs—a few more trips each day—to strengthen his shaky legs for visits to the hives at the bottom of our yard. I figured that the least I could do then was feign a little interest in his stinging insects, even if they were tremendously scary.

      And buzzing loudly.

      And increasing in numbers every day.

      June 2008 passed. But Tommy, defying all medical predictions, did not.

      And somewhere, in that blur of medical appointments, chemotherapy side effects, and the daily miracle of his survival, my keeping his bees became less of a chore and more of a blessing. When you’re working with bees, it’s best that you focus only on the bees and leave all worries elsewhere. If that focus wavers for a second, well, a sharp sting on the ankles is enough reminder about where priorities should bee.

      Tommy managed to continue to mock all medical predictions, and for another year we discussed bees, planned for them, and banged our heads against walls over them. Gradually I fell under this insect’s magical spell. What were once his bees became our bees. Those bees were some of the sweetest times of our marriage.

      Tommy gave cancer a good fight, but its defeat was not meant to bee. We held his visitation in our backyard, amongst the gardens he so lovingly cultivated, outside of the garage whose contents would later take days for me to sort through (all the while wondering, What was he thinking?!)

      As the sun slipped over the horizon that blessed evening, hundreds of people gathered with us in our yard—hugging, crying, and laughing.

      At the edge of our property, thousands of bees gathered in their hives. I don’t know if they were laughing or crying, but I think they sensed things had changed. They respectfully gave us space, and vice versa. And, a few weeks later, they gave us pounds of glorious honey that we sold to raise money for Tom’s favorite charities[1].

      Photo of Tommy and Charlotte with many little honey bears.

      Tom and Charlotte, with part of ’09’s honey crop.

      I never thought I’d be a beekeeper, but then, I never thought I’d be a widow before age 50 either. Both required going forward bravely, although, no matter how much smoke I might puff out of the smoker, or how many hours I spend behind the protective veil of my bee suit, I still can’t fully hide from the grief that still knocks me down from time to time.

      While I’ve gone forward bravely, I haven’t gone forward alone. Beekeeping introduced me to a wonderful community of people for advice and support, and brought me the peace and companionship of a half-million buzzing friends.

      There are angels among us, and sometimes they come in the form of perfect, fuzzy, golden insects.

      See www.tomsbeelovedhoney.org↵

      Why Do I Keep Bees?

      My son comes from a family of farmers, engineers, and other laborers, and he’s dating a fabulous young woman from a very different social circle.

      In our family, we read magazines. In hers, they’re featured on the covers of them.

      Her relatives are Ivy League professors, internationally known journalists, doctors or lawyers—except for those who are both doctors and lawyers.

      I recently attended a gathering of her people. They are kind, engaging and friendly. Because I can’t eloquently discuss Mideast diplomacy, life-saving medical innovations (for which they hold the patents), or the merits of a Princeton versus a Yale PhD, I spent that intimidating evening hiding behind robust potted plants, except for occasional (OK, frequent) trips out to the awesome buffet for refills—especially from the dessert section.

      Photo of Charlotte Hubbard next to one of her hives.

      In a classroom I’m in charge; in the apiary—I’m perpetually the student. It seems that the longer I keep bees, the stupider I get.

      I’m introverted by nature, so I was quite comfortable hanging out with ferns. But somehow, word got out

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