My stories aren’t
meant to be autobiographical, but occasionally some of my own experiences do
creep in. I was working on a chapter where the characters harvest honey from a
bees’ nest, and it reminded me of my own experiences growing up with a father
who raised bees as a hobby.
They started in
LaPrairie, Illinois, where Daddy had a country church. I was probably four or
five at the time.
Daddy got his
first bees when they swarmed on the grape vines in our yard. He knew bees didn’t
sting when they were swarming, but he didn’t know much else, so he put them in
a wooden box approximately the size of a bee hive but without any frames for
them to build their honeycomb on. The first photo shows the honeycomb they
created in that box. Unfortunately, according to Daddy’s memoirs, he didn’t
know enough about bees at the time and they froze to death over the winter.
Daddy learned more
before his next attempt, when he had a regular hive with frames and ordered the
bees through the mail. The second picture shows him wearing his bee bonnet and
harvesting the honey from these tame bees. Then he added wild bees when they
swarmed around the outside light over the entrance to the church. Daddy’s memoirs
say the tame bees were gentle but the wild ones were mean. Fortunately, he kept
them in different hives quite a ways apart.
In the summer we
ran around barefoot, and it wasn’t unusual for me to step on a bee that was
sitting in the grass. Looking back, it’s very fortunate that neither my
brothers nor I were allergic to bees. I’m sure Daddy would have gotten rid of
them immediately if we had been, but then we would have missed out on all that
delicious honey.
I especially liked
it when Daddy harvested the honey and cut up some of the comb for us to eat. It
dripped with the sweet taste of honey and chewed like gum. Most people don’t
have that experience these days, but it was as good as any treat.
When Daddy decided
to take a sabbatical in Jordon, we had to leave the bees behind. His memoirs
don’t mention working with bees again until I was in college, when the bees
were at my Uncle Lester’s tree farm.
That doesn’t mean
he didn’t have bees in between, however. I don’t remember it, but my brother
says we had bees at DeTour Village, Michigan, where Daddy took a church after
we returned from Jordon.
Although the days
at LaPrairie were the only ones where I remember the bees being “up close and
personal,” those are good memories.
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