About Us

So, when I started raising honeybees, a friend commented that bees are so tame that eventually, you’ll be comfortable working on them with very little to no protective gear. I thought, “Not me, that would just be stupid.” So, while working the bees, other than one very explainable incident that was my fault, I’ve not been swarmed or stung. The bees have been very gentle and patient with me. Yet I continued to wear protective gear.

My thoughts on the topic of beekeeper wear didn’t occur to me when I went down for a casual inspection the other day. My wife wants you all to know that it wasn’t tidy whitey underwear I was in but bright red boxers when I checked the bees in my underwear and flip flops. Now I wouldn’t be dumb enough to wear bare feet, so I completed the fashion ensemble with black socks. Truth be told, I just got home from work and took a suit off and I didn’t feel like putting pants back on. They’re my fields on my property and I reserve the right to saunter around looking like hell after I pay my taxes if I feel like it. A private promenade is a perk of property proprietorship while living in the country, if you will.

I’m not sure the bees agreed. I’ve been assured by other beekeepers that bees right now are very cranky because of the cold, wet weather, inability to swarm, and scantily dressed men being stupid. 

So, I checked the bees bare. As I looked at the frames, I got a warning buzz by my head. That’s when I realized that I have gotten far more casual than I ever planned to. At one time, I even considered just wearing pants and a shirt with a veil as being “stupid.” Suddenly feeling vulnerable and sensing that the bees were not in a gentle mood, I began replacing the inner cover and lid. As I put the inner cover on there was a wellspring of annoyed looking honey makers boiling up from the box, called a “super”. That’s not good…even with a mask on… I think I heard a bee say, “Hey, he’s bare!” Maybe the others misunderstood and thought he said, “a Bear.” (Bees don’t like bears enough to quibble over specific vernacular.) The reason they were angry was no longer the issue, but it was clear that maybe I was not their friend that day. Nor did my status matter anymore, there was going to be stinger fire and friendly fire is as deadly as enemy fire. 

My wife, who was standing about ten yards away, stopped giggling at my under prepared activities. Noticing the sudden change and being that she is allergic to bees, I turned to her and told her that she should make distance, a lot of distance, now, as I fumbled with the outer lid. The urgency of the buzz reminded me of the swarm incident I endured last year in a full bee suit, and I realized that I may be in trouble. Stupid…

Dana got in the clear a good distance away and I got to the end of the bee yard, so I started to relax. Just when thought I got away with nothing but a warning “Whack,” I got hit with a sting on the back of my calf. Luckily, it was the only sting I got but I think it was the biggest, meanest, maddest bee in the colony. The stinger looked like a saber sticking out of my leg. The lesson is learned. I was lucky to barely get away without a more serious incident! Next time I get out, it’ll be in tidy whiteys!

See you along the stream