I spent today pulling crabgrass and other hateful weeds from the flower beds. I’m puzzled about where so many weeds come from, but they are persistent if nothing else. Also persistent are the evil sweat bees. They buzz around the ears like an annoying mosquito, looking for exposed skin. It wasn’t long before a string of grumbles and swear words tumbled from my mouth as the small but powerful bug drove its stinger into the fatty layer behind my right knee.

Once the burning eased, I laughed to myself as I thought of Dad and his “sweat bee” tale. Often, Dad told the story when we gathered for family meals. The tale had a way of popping up when Dad traveled down memory lane or when one of us complained about some injustice. We heard it several times but always laughed as if it was the first time we were hearing it. It never got old.

Dad was raised on this farm with crops and cows and six siblings. When he was 5 or 6, his dad took him and his brothers, Paul and John, to the corn field to weed the long rows. As the day got warmer, the sweat bees were plentiful. After a few stings, Dad made the mistake of whining to Grandpa. Grandpa determined it was time for a lesson. He chose a switch from the border and then dealt a few strategically located lashes across the back of Dad’s overalls. Dad said, amazingly, the sting of the sweat bees was forgotten entirely, and he went back to the job at hand, realizing he could deal with a few irritating sweat bees.

I was amid conference preparations a month or so ago. Things can be overwhelming, trying to spin all the plates at the same time. As I sat on the porch, doing a little whining, my sister looked at me and said, “Do you need the sweat bee story?”. I laughed and responded that I didn’t because I remembered it clearly and knew the lesson well.

Rubbing the burning spot on my knee, I could almost hear Dad’s voice and the laughter that accompanied his sharing of another life lesson about perspective. Back then, as we sat around the table, we didn’t know we might need the sharp pain of a sweat bee and the memory of a good family tale to remind us of all that is good and to face the job at hand, whatever that may be. Like most things, Dad knew we’d each need the “sweat bee” story at various times in our lives.

The past week hasn’t been a week of no work (the kind you get paid to do), but it was one of those quieter weeks. One of those with the after-holiday lull and before the commitments kick in. You know, the kind of week where an extra cup of coffee is enjoyed. As you drink your coffee, you take the time to read about compost piles, building the soil, starting a worm farm, mindlessly flip through the seed catalogs, and then browse the emails full of plant offers. The algorithms and the gardening articles give me away. Those darn marketing people. They make it too easy to chase gardening joy.

I experienced joy this week, buying too many flower seeds (I need a PO box with another name), dreaming of a cow panel trellis (plural), and sending the hubby blueprints for a roadside flower stand. In addition to algorithms and pretty seed books, Pinterest is evil when time is limited, but I call it “friend” when the coffee pot is full.

I chased extra joy by making a mess in the basement. Playing with dirt outside is too cold, but the basement is warm and cozy (wood stove). I dragged my dirt, seeds, and containers to the basement table. It’s early, I know, but the grow lights and heat pads were dormant, and the Feverfew was lonely. I told myself it was okay since I pulled the cool-weather flower seeds—cherry Rudbeckia, Sahara black-eye susans, and some other flower I can’t recall. It sounded pretty. And okay, I admit I planted some lettuce in plastic boxes to see what would happen. Gardening is nothing but experimentation, right? I’m not sure salad is in my future. Stay tuned.

Besides gardening, I spent some time in the snow, walking the farm, hearing nothing but the crunching sounds of our boots and the creek trickle. It didn’t stay long, but it brought joy to many folks around here, especially the milk, egg, and bread makers. 🙂 A couple of extra bonuses to the snow were the full moon lighting up the snowy landscape at night and the neighbors’ adorable sheep. They didn’t seem to mind the cold at all.

I hope you chased some joy this past week. If not, it’s a whole new week. Take a few minutes to do so. Speaking of algorithms on social media, this link brought me joy, and it might do the same for you. It’s hard not to smile at Rico, the porcupine.

https://www.facebook.com/share/v/1AH457QjFJ

Have a great week!

Carrie

We planted it for the bees. Five thousand square feet of crimson clover. It’s beautiful. A spot of color in the 20 acres of green. To you, it looks like an ordinary patch of flowering weeds. To me, it’s more.

We planted the clover in the middle of what Dad called the clover field. Ironic, I know. I don’t know the story behind the name. I wish I had asked the story at the same time I asked about the flat field, the big bottom, and the little bottom. That’s what I grew up hearing. Where’s Dad? Checking cows in the big bottom. Where’s the garden? In the little bottom. Do I have to gather corn in the flat field? (Insert whine here.)
I remember the clover field being lush and green and fenced for cows. It was bordered with blackberry covered briars in the summer. Time passed, Dad got older, and the briars moved way beyond the edges. The thorny pear trees multiplied, the privet expanded, limbs collapsed, and the grass smothered beneath the canvas of overgrowth. The clover field turned into a mangled mess.
When David and I bought the family place in 2016, twenty acres of scary jungle came in the package deal. We talked about what to do. We talked about ignoring the mess. Pretend it isn’t there. We could let it continue to be the breeding ground for rattleheadedcoppermoccasins,or we could start the process of clearing. We chose the latter.

It won’t be perfect in our lifetime, but four years later, with the help of massive grinding machines and lots of Huckeby sweat (David’s), crimson clover grows in the middle of the field. I think Dad would be happy the ground is coming back to life.

Sometimes it makes me misty to walk or ride through the clover field. I think of Dad. To you, it looks like an ordinary patch of flowering weeds. To David and me, it’s more.

I love this photo

because

it’s a moment of happiness captured forever.

Because

it’s the beginning of Addison’s childhood memory of the swing Popi made, and this tree.

Because

it’s a reminder of my childhood memories, and

the memory of passing this tree, a thousand times, in the car with Mom and Dad, crushed between siblings.

Because

it’s walking to the watermelon patch and taking a moment in the tree’s shade.

Because

it’s passing this tree with shovel in hand to dig potatoes to feed us through winter, and

to collect a million ears of corn, tossing them in the bed of Dad’s red Chevy truck.

Because

I walked by this tree to gather blackberries with my belt looped through milk jugs for hands free picking.

Because

this tree served as a protector when mama cow chased me to the fence.

Because

I sat in the shade of this tree with Mom and Dad as they built the house, I now call home.

I love this photo.

It’s a photo of happiness.

Sometimes I wonder about the sanity of keeping bees. Even the word “keeping” is a misrepresentation of what really happens when setting up beehives. Honestly, there is no “keeping”. The bees are free spirited, free to scout, and free to swarm. And that’s exactly what one of my colonies did.

Last winter my heart was broken by the loss of two hives to starvation and the cold. The other absconded. It was a rough first year for this newbie. I marked it up to training, ordered two new packages, and tried again. I realize calling it training sounds cold and callus from the bee’s perspective.

The first new hive grew fast and furious. The queen was a keeper. Or, so I thought. The hive body soon weighed over 50 pounds. I could barely lift. I added supers and watched it thrive. I didn’t harvest the honey. I figured they needed it for the winter. Starving your hive tends to stick with you.

The second colony grew noticeably slower. There was less brood and less honey making. They were calm and peaceful though and I liked it. I figured I could live with the slow production of honey with that kind of laid-back attitude. I do understand now that having two hives is the thing to do so you can compare the colonies.

The days have been so, so hot. Humid and sweltering. I ventilated the hives and hoped the shade of the tree would provide some relief. I noticed what I thought was bearding on the front of the largest hive. It must have been part bearding and part “hey you, we are out of room”.

It happened as the hubby and I checked on the watermelon patch. As we made a pass by the hives, a small black cloud swirled in the air. In the pine tree, a stalactite of bees. We raced back to the house to get a box, but alas, they were gone when we returned. Again, in that moment I questioned my beekeeping sanity.

I read, researched, asked questions in the beekeeping Facebook group, and tried to decide what to do.  My decision? Do nothing and let the bees do what they do in nature. In the wild, they split to create another colony. They obviously know more than I do.

I did open the hive a couple of weeks ago. There are open queen cells. There’s brood, pollen, and honey. No longer 50 pounds since they gorged themselves when they left, but a good start for winter. My fingers are crossed there’s a new matriarch in there somewhere.

I’ll check the hive in a bit to see what’s happening. I’m confident I’ll still be questioning why I got into beekeeping.

I’m embarrassed that I’m almost as bad at writing the Windy Hill blog as I am at journaling. I have the best intentions. Yeah, I know about the road and good intentions. The quote reminds me of the times Mom returned home from shopping and said she “almost” bought something for me.  Anyway, September is last time I updated the site. Crazy and embarrassing.  Lots of things happened since then. The holidays, travel, parathyroid surgery, a new part-time job, and sadly the loss of two bee hives.

When you’re an inexperienced beekeeper, it’s a guess what happened.  I hear it’s normal to lose hives in cold spells due to mites and starvation, but I hoped I would be the exception to the rule. No go. I could not have predicted the feeling of sadness when I realized that Queen Vic and Liz probably starved and froze to death. It’s one thing when you can blame a mite, but when it’s at your own hands, it just makes you sad all over as you clean out the boxes. I had sugar feeders in the hive but they didn’t work for them. Maybe too much moisture. The only hive that survived is the grouchy one with the original queen. See, I’ve been telling folks a little bit of grouch makes you stronger.

I’m not giving up. I received a new package of bees this weekend. Thank you to the hubby for picking up the buzzing box at the post office. It’s amazing that you can order just about anything, isn’t it? I had the hives at the barn next door, but since it is a new start, I moved them to what we call the clover field. There’s not a lot of clover there but they have access to a variety of pollen.  The field was covered with goldenrod last fall.

The weather wasn’t optimum for bee installation Saturday. The wind was howling, and a storm was coming in with cold temps. I decided they would be better off in the hive than in the garage for several days. I don’t know that it was a good decision. Like most things with beekeeping, it’s like throwing a dart. I sprayed them down with some sugar water, shook them out of their confines, hung the queen box between the frames, and stuck the feeder in the front. I noticed right off the bat the bees were pretty laid back. With or without sugar water, they didn’t act determined to get me. I like that kind of attitude. (I can’t say the same for the grouchy surviving hive.) I blocked the entrance to a small entry and left them to hunker down before the storm.

I checked yesterday and they were still home. I gave them a little more warmth by wrapping the hive because of the overnight freezing temps. I thought it was the least I could do after kicking them out of the garage. I’ll give it a day or so, wait for the temps to be above 65, and check on the queen. She had a beautiful green neon dot on her back. She seemed to be off to a good introduction as the other bees weren’t attacking the box. Hopefully she will be a happy little queen, love the new digs, and her new tribe.

For you other beekeepers, good luck! I hope your hives survived the winter and you’re off to a good start. I have one more package of bees coming. That’s a total of three. I figure that’s all I can afford to mess up. Experimental beekeeping is not cheap. If you have any advice, don’t hesitate to share!

It hasn’t taken David and me long to learn things about Charlie. He’s pretty much who he said he was on that Saturday at the shelter. No false pretenses. No game playing. Just a laid-back lab with soulful brown eyes.

David and I do suspect that Charlie is a bit younger than everyone guessed. Maybe he did try to cover up puppy tendencies. He likes to gnaw on stuff. The cushion, the rug, and his new dog bed. Or he’s in the toddler stage because he acts out by chewing up stuff when he doesn’t get his way.

In all fairness, Charlie has figured out that we are older than he suspected. Why? We are boring. We are quiet. We like being on the porch, drinking our coffee, eating dinner, and watching sunrises and sunsets. David listens to jazz. Charlie has found his own spot in the corner, under David’s feet. He must be ok with the music selection.

Charlie probably has notes about us (I wonder where he keeps them) as we have learned the following about him.

• He loves the soybeans. All we can see is the top of his tail as he tracks imaginary critters through the rows. Or maybe they aren’t imaginary.
• He knows “sit” and does it well for treats. He’s no dummy.
• He hates storms and thunder. He goes to the basement. Again, no dummy.
• He’s David’s dog. He rushes to him in the afternoon, tail wagging, when he comes home from work. I think he tolerates me.
• He does yoga stretches when he lays down and makes a funny yawning noise.
• He can climb the neighbor’s gate. I saw it happen.
• He loves to sleep above the floor. The chair, the extra bed in the basement, and the couch. Anywhere he can get without being caught.
• 

  
• He loves bacon.
• He doesn’t like Pringles.
• He wants no part of chasing a tennis ball. He looks at David with his “stupid human” gaze. He does like rolling in the grass.
• 

 

• Charlie is oddly particular about where he takes care of business. He will hold it forever, scouting for the perfect spot. Personally, I think he does it just to see how impatient the humans will get.

And finally…..

• We knew we couldn’t keep him on a leash forever. I mean what fun is that for country dog? We took him to the creek. He did a walk about after a refreshing dip in the creek. We weren’t sure he would come back. Thankfully, before David and I reached the house, we heard paw-thunder behind us.

I think Charlie is keeping us.

Meet Charlie. He’s a lab mix. He’s probably 4 or 5 years old. We don’t know exactly. The  puppy is long gone. His coat is dark with a patch of mange. He’s a bit wormy. His eyes are dark like his coat. He seems mature and a little sad.

We don’t know Charlie’s story, but we hope to start a new one with him. David and I adopted him from the pound. The pound called him Richie. We thought he needed a new name with his new story. The pound is a sad place to land. Noisy, crowded, and doing what they can on a shoe string budget. We hope our place will be a happy place for Charlie.

We talked  about getting another dog here on Windy Hill. Waking up to a rainy Saturday, it was a good day to visit the pound. We walked in and there sat a black dog between the cages of barking dogs. With his head on his paws, he ignored the ruckus around him. David and I wanted a low maintenance, laid back dog. No yipping, no puppy chewing, just a low-key canine that might sit and enjoy the sunsets with us. Charlie starred and conveyed, “I can do that”.

We signed the papers agreeing to things like getting him neutered, bring him back versus giving him away if he isn’t a fit, and don’t let him terrorize the neighbors. We signed, took his pills, and realized we had to get him home in the Highlander.

We made a trip to Walmart with Charlie in the back. David went for supplies. A collar, leash, a doggie bed, and bowls. While David shopped, Charlie took the liberty of jumping over the back seat, climbing in the passenger seat, taking over the driver seat, blowing the horn a few times, fogging up the windows, and shedding all over the tan interior. With Charlie sitting in my lap, I recognized the fact I was in a small space with a dog I knew nothing about. It didn’t seem to bother Charlie that he knew nothing about me.

Charlie was introduced to our Biscuit. She sniffed him. He sniffed her and walked away. Biscuit was a bit more disgusted with the fact we had another dog. Charlie seemed to shrug. After all, he just came from a place with a bunch of competition. We put Charlie on the screened porch to start acclimating to the place. He took over the wicker furniture. David put on his new red collar (it looks nice with his black hair) and walked him on a leash. Later, Charlie walked without his leash. David got his steps in because Charlie went to the bridge first thing. I guess he was headed back to town. He will certainly need more time on the porch.

We know there’s no promises that Charlie will start his story with us even as we try to start one with him. Stay tuned and wish Charlie luck. Chances are he’s out on the porch creating a story about the two old people that adopted him and made him take a bath.  We are waiting to tell him about the upcoming vet visit……………………..

On a side note, if you’re looking for a dog to love or a kitten to love you (there’s some adorable and fluffy kittens at the Warren County shelter…especially the little gray and white one) visit your local animal shelter. Vist their facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/Warren-County-Animal-Control-and-Adoption-Center-McMinnville-TN-599515966737334/

It’s been a while since I posted my ramblings. The days pass so quickly.

If you’ve read any of my earlier post on my beekeeping adventures, you know I requeened one of the hives and started another hive last month. Now that it’s over, I realize it was a good learning experience (sort of like raising teenagers). After the two-week checkup, it seemed Queen Liz and Victoria were successfully doing their thing and the original queen was good too (I should give her a name, so she doesn’t feel left out). Other than feeding, I decided to leave them be for a while. A rest from my prodding hive tool. By the way, between David’s hummingbirds and the bees, we need sugar cane in the field instead of soybeans.

From everything I’ve read and watched, August and September are varroa mite treatment time. This is the part of beekeeping I’ve been dreading. It encourages me to move to Australia where no mites exist. It seems so complicated compared to treating the dog for fleas. There’s so much information and opinions about mites and beetles. Suggested treatments include organic, essential oils (who knew there’s a difference in food grade and aromatherapy), strips, oxalic acid, or do nothing. As a newbie, the opinions and options are overwhelming. I thought about ignoring it all and pretending MY hives would never have mites, but that attitude will likely doom the girls to a winter death. We’ve been through too much to let that happen.

This brings me to the testing for mites. Alcohol wash or sugar shake? Certain death or be cleaned off by your sister bees. Sugar shake it is. This past Saturday my goal was to test the hives. First, I should have listened to the ladies when they gave the signs they wanted no part of testing. There was a hard rain the night before and it was clear right from the beginning they were not in a good mood. I chose to ignore. Bad idea. Layering on top of an already bad disposition, I took 300 rowdy bees and placed them in a jar, dropped in powdered sugar, rolled it around, and shook for a full minute over a white bucket. You tell me what kind of mood you’d been in after that. After a sting through the gloves and two angry guard bees chasing me to the barn, I waved my flag and said no-way to testing the other hive.

The single test did reveal a few small brown spots that could be mites. Bad eyesight and inexperience did not confirm anything 100%. I went back later and used cooking oil spray on the white boards under the screened bottoms to monitor mites (another testing method found on YouTube). Twenty-four hours later, I pulled the boards. Yes, there are some little brown round spots, but again, inexperience and eyesight will not confirm mite infestation.  Using the better safe than sorry method, I’m treating in the next week or so. I’d rather give them a drag off a fogger using oxalic acid and 190 proof grain alcohol than risk the death of the hives (I’m following Dave with Barnyard Bee’s advice). On that note, one can buy anything from Amazon.

Stay tuned as my fogger, 190 proof alcohol, oxalic acid, and respirator arrive in the mail. One small propane tank from Walmart and things should get interesting. I think the mention of the propane tank scared the hubby.