Winter is Coming

Fall is late in coming to Texas this year. We had eighty-degree weather this weekend, and I finally mustered up the will to take a look at the hives. Historically I haven’t taken honey from my bees in the fall. But I least wanted to know if the top super in my largest hive was full of honey or not. I checked, and it was. I could tell from the weight. I threw the super into the chest freezer along with the pack of derelict bees that had the misfortunate of hitching a ride on those frames. I wonder if they are still alive, in the small cluster that they no doubt formed. Probably not. The relentless will of the chest freezer to remove all warmth has probably made an impression already.

The two other smaller hives were full to the brim as well. I did not remove any supers or frames. I haven’t completely ruled out doing so, but I’m not very motivated. If I do take the two supers out of the freezer and spin them anytime soon, I may take some more honey from the hives. But there’s a balance to consider here. They need a certain amount of honey to survive the winter. Or more precisely, they need enough honey that they don’t starve to death during the spring, when the hive’s energy requirements are huge, but the nectar rolling in isn’t. If I take too much honey they will die or be weak and stunted for the season. If I leave more than they need, I’ll be able to spin some of that down in the spring, but a certain part will be essentially wasted as the hive builds greater numbers of bees than they really need. One result might be throwing swarms, which would weaken my hives by attrition.

Several weeks ago I checked on my two hives at Paul’s house. The hive with the domestic queen has done well. The other hive–the one that is a hybrid top-bar hive–has hung in there, but has not thrived. It’s build up during the summer and fall was almost non-existent. You may recall that I had torn apart the deep that was in top-bar configuration, and only saved two of the combs, which I wired in frames. The remaining top-bar shallow super was put on the bottom, and the deep was placed on top of that. The bees had only built up maybe one additional frame in the deep when I checked. So I set Paul to the task of feeding these bees in the hopes that they will survive the winter. Of course, last year when we tried this, the hive we attempted to succor with sugar water was robbed out and killed. That has not happened this year, and the bees have taken to the sugar water without incident. This is my last hive with the original genetics of my first hive–long since superceded with partial feral genetics. The plan is to completely convert this hive to a Langstroth configuration by tearing apart that last top-bar shallow super on the bottom. As I sit here, I am wondering why I am even bothering to go to the trouble. I would probably be better off just killing these bees and making a split from one of my strong hives in the spring. But stubborn plans are rarely daunted by wisdom. Such is the case here.

I think about what I have left to accomplish with beekeeping. What is it that holds my interest and will keep me going? For one, inertia. I have a large investment in my operation, and truthfully, it doesn’t take much to keep the bees going. And I am certainly not a master beekeeper. There are many things I have never done. And that’s okay. I am rarely interested in getting to that final 5-10% of an hobby that only the true dedicated experts can do. It often takes a lifetime of work to get there. And I only have one life, and so many other things to try.
Some folks may derisively sneer at hobbyists. I think my wife feels that way sometimes. “Are you really going to do this?” It’s like being married to a hobbyist is a form of slow torture, of a particularly shallow sort. You can never point to a hobbyist’s triumphs as anything of note. So in effect, it is like putting up with the mercurial artist, while getting no credit for it from outsiders. If you’re married to a jerk, and his name is Hemingway, that’s one thing. If you’re married to a jerk, and he makes shabby wall clocks in his spare time, that’s another thing.

But my point is this–I don’t do hobbies because I like the idea of hobbies. I do these things because I like to learn. And I thank God that I was born in the time that the internet was born, because it has never been easier to learn. It has never been easier to find and associate with true experts from all over the world. It’s a learner’s paradise. The idea of not wanting to learn is foreign to me. I can’t understand it. I know these people exist, but I don’t understand them. I may have related this before–I had taken on a new activity during my medical training. Windsurfing. Some of my colleagues couldn’t understand where I found the time. I scratched my head and wondered, “What do you do with your time?” We all have time. Until we have none.

Activities are often the forms on which other things take place. I often hear of people doing certain activities in order to spend time with their children, for example. It’s not that the fishing was so great, it’s that I was able to do it with my children. That kind of thing. Beekeeping started with hanging around my father. And has given me an opportunity to speak to my father many times over the years. It takes on a meaning greater than the mere activity itself.

I own an insect display case that my grandfather built for my father. He was a carpenter. And this case was built of wood in a particular distinct way. I like that. I like that he liked working with wood. It makes me want to work with wood. I want my hands to go through the same motions that his did. I want my mind to puzzle over the same problems. I want to heft something of my own creation, like he did. He died in 1994. And here I am in 2012 thinking that I can approach the man. Through wood. I’ve overstated it, but there’s a nugget (or sliver?) of truth there. At least for me.

So the bees are tucked in. Ready for another winter. As they always have, for millions of years. I’ve flitted around the edges of their lives, hardly noticeable for months on end. An impact here or there, sometimes small and sometimes more. As the temperature drops, the bees will cluster together and create warmth as they metabolize the honey they worked so hard to produce. They will keep their queen warm at all costs, because without her there is no future. It must be hard to be on the edge of the cluster, exposed to the bitterest cold. But an honor too. The first to fall and die. In the time they had. Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all from down here in Texas.