Summer: Smoker in hand, Warren moves from hive to hive. At each entrance, he pumps the bellows once to quiet the bees. The chisel end of the hive tool pries off the top of the box. He leans the top against the side of the hive and pumps more smoke over the bees. They remain still, as he cracks the bee glue that holds the frames tight. He lifts one frame, then another, examines each for how well the bees made comb, and for the eggs and larva in their care. He looks for the black dots of mites and the white web of foul-brood that can destroy a whole yard of hives. He checks how much honey they’ve stored. Sometimes, he spies the queen, surrounded by her court. He resets the hive top, wipes sweat from his brow. He moves down the row.
Fall: Before harvesting honey, before first frost arrives, he makes fume boards for clearing the bees, one chunk of plywood for each hive. He staples clean dishrags to one side of each board. He dabs the cloth with bitter almond oil, which honeybees hate. He sets a board under the top of each hive. The bees clear from the small boxes on top, the honey supers. He removes the supers and covers the hive, carts boxes to the barn and takes out the frames. With his fingers, he brushes stray bees off the comb. They fly back to their hives. He holds each glistening frame aloft. With a big knife, he saws off the wax caps that protect the comb. He places the frames spoke-wise into the extractor and spins honey from the comb into white plastic buckets beneath.
Winter: Honeybees don’t fly when the air turns cold. In the dark of their hive, they draw close to the queen. Holding one another, they vibrate wings to keep their cluster warm. Warren keeps them safe. He staples wire-mesh mouse guards into their doors, checks there’s enough honey, sends a cloud of fine oxalic mist through the hives to clear any mites. Come warm days in winter, honeybees skim the dry grass, looking for water, needing to drink. He pours water into the lid of a bucket behind the greenhouse. He drops twigs into the tiny gray pond, so the bees can drink together, and so they don’t fall in and waste precious energy and drown, trying to escape. On a bench nearby, he watches honeybees share their watering spot.
Spring: Warren runs in from the yard. “Swarm!” He grabs an old bed sheet kept for the purpose and he bolts out back, where honeybees hang from the big cedar tree. I follow with my camera, to see a long shadow within a fold of green curtain. Warren spreads the cloth out over the grass. He sets out a hive box full of empty honeycomb directly under the swarm. I aim my camera. Using the telescoping hedge clipper, he reaches to the branch. He closes the clipper jaws gently and shakes. The swarm drops—shoop!—into the box. Warren kneels on the blanket and gently scoops stray bees into the box, then he gingerly places the lid on top. I snap my shot. Honeybees swirling all around, Warren’s hand lifts from the hive, palm open, benediction caught freeze-frame.
