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~My Reflections on Homesteading and Nuclear Warfare~
If you had told me seven years ago that I’d ever become a southern chicken momma, I’d have laughed in your face. I never imagined that, over the course of a handful of blistering summers, the South would transform me from a “Type A” New England girl to an Alabaman homesteading queen with a potato garden and a yard full of free ranging chickens, dogs, and stray children. Maybe it was the just the pandemic and peer pressure that started me on the hobby farming course, but I’d like to think that I come by these interests honestly. After all, my maternal great-grandparents were Minnesota farmers. They worked from dawn to dusk and instilled in my mother a fierce work ethic and pension for growing large gardens, baking bread, making soap, and dipping candles. Maybe it was the aromatic bunches of herbs drying in our rafters and the cauldron of sweet beeswax melting on our kitchen woodstove that set me on this homesteading journey. All I know for sure is that some pretty powerful forces have brought me where I am today.
A few years ago, I discovered the wonders of kombucha and started my own tea brewery and collection of scobies. This naturally led to perfecting my sourdough starter and artisan bread loaves, which were snatched up at local markets. Chickens were the next logical pitstop as I headed slowly but steadily toward homesteading crazy town. I raised several broods and even spent hours watching fluff balls emerge from incubated eggs on my kitchen table. My pace was increasing, and I knew the final stop of my journey would be beekeeping.
Like several friends in my southern momma circle, I fell for the YouTube videos which showed the magical side of beekeeping. Little imps in overalls helping Memaw harvest honey. There was music and laughter and some frolicking lambs in the background. No one was stung in all of this sticky mirth, and the family hardly knew what to do with all the honey they got!
I made a plan to put aside a bit of the income I made cleaning horse stalls. Most of my barn money was accounted for, but I was able to start a secret savings of my own. I called it my “birds and bees fund” just to crack up my teenagers. Eventually, with the help of our prolific hens, I earned enough to buy my first beehive off of eBay. I was elated! Gradually a beekeeping suit, hive tool, and smoker were added to my stash, and my husband started looking nervous. I assured him that I had done loads of research and that my bee venture would prove to be as successful as the chickens had been. I preordered my first nucleusof honey bees and waited.
At long last an anxious UPS driver showed up on my doorstep and told me in a shaky voice that there seemed to be a problem. “Ma’am, I dunno as much about bees as y’all do, but this don’t look good.” He lifted up the caged box to reveal a heap of distorted bee carcasses which had perished in transit. I agreed that those dried up husks would never make honey. After offering his condolences, the delivery man recommended that I reject the delivery and try again. Sadly, my experience was repeated a second time. Two colonies of massacred bees had arrived on my doorstep. I had to document the carnage with graphic photo evidence so the company would reimburse me. I shook off some feelings of foreboding but refused to give up.
It was time to swallow my Yankee-bred independence and reached out to a local friend who kept bees. After telling her my sad tale, she immediately connected me with a mutual acquaintance, a bee farmer who offered me 50,000 bees for the same price I had paid for half as many dead ones! Hardly believing my good fortune, I sent my husband to pick up the two “nucs” and added the finishing touches to my hive.
I’m not quite sure what I was expecting, but the wild buzzing inside the two boxes of mad bees intimidated me. I had not planned for nuclear warfare and pushed down some panic as I took off the netting. A minute later, my husband, who had been observing from a safe distance, hollered and began running to the house with a cloud of bees on his tail. Surely, he was exaggerating a bit? Six little stings couldn’t be all that bad… I was left alone to battle the bees. Gloved hands shaking, I managed to gingerly lift the first frame. It slipped, kamikaze bees pelted me in the face, and my life flashed before my eyes. I had watched the Hunger Games and knew my chances of survival were as slim as those of Katniss when she encountered the swarms of venomous tracker jackers. I begged God to spare my life and to just let the bees vaporize or swarm somewhere else. Sometime in between dropping that first frame and wetting my bee suit, I managed to get a few thousand bees into my hives. Sure, I had been stung and was even then swelling up beyond recognition, but I had prevailed!
Fast forward a few months of inspecting and feeding my bees, conquering hive beetles with murder sauce, and learning the hard way how to keep bees out of my boots, I was euphoric. I even had a few jars of golden sweetness to show for a summer of hard work. I will admit that I felt a bit uneasy about my clumsy harvesting process and the casualties of so many of my bees. I even thought about coming clean and labeling my honey with the disclaimer that “both bees and beekeepers were harmed in the production of this honey.” Those honey-coated Pinterest posts and YouTube bee videos still haunted me, but the more I’ve talked to my bee keeping friends, the more I’ve realized that my learning curve and mistakes are common to all new beekeepers. One thing is for sure. I have gained a healthy fear and respect for both the honey bees and the formidable southern mommas who subdue them. Before I became an Alabamian hobby farmer, I believed the stereotypes. I discounted all southern ladies as superficial with their manicures and honey-sweet accents and pretty faces. Boy did I underestimate them! If bee keeping has taught me anything it’s that, on the inside, every bee AND every southern homesteading momma is a powerful force to be reckoned with. You might think she’s just full of honey, but if you’re fixing to mess with her home or her babies, y’all better prepare to be stung! And this Yankee girl is proud to call these queen bees her best friends.
