Buzz kill

Even if you've been stung before (when I was 12 I stumbled through a yellow-jacket nest and received more than 25 stings), as a beginning beekeeper you worry about your first sting. We're choosing to get stung. It feels a bit transgressive. It certainly seemed so to my next-door neighbor.

"You should move to the country," Trudy said when she saw my buzzing shoe box. She was out on her lawn, trimming the grass with a pair of scissors. Next to her lawn was our raised parking strip garden, a chaotic jumble of tall stalks of fava beans, lettuces and Swiss chard. Most city ordinances allow beekeeping if there is adequate distance from the hive to any neighboring structures. Since we planned to house the hive on our upstairs deck, we were within that legal boundary. And so I marched upstairs to our deck clutching the bee package, hoping I looked like I knew what I was doing.

I put on as much clothing as possible. Triple shirts; a mechanic's jumpsuit; several pairs of socks, hiked up and tucked into my pants; heavy-duty fabric beekeeping gloves (regretting I hadn't bought the more expensive leather ones), and finally, my veil. Swaddled as I was, I could barely put down my arms.

The sun was going down, that lovely April day. I set up the hive to face due east so it would get early morning sun. Installing the bees later in the day avoids confusing them, for they like to spend at least a night in their hive before venturing out. I pried the lid off the bee package and, as instructed, tilted the opening toward the fresh hive body, with its orderly rows of frames just waiting to be filled with honey.

The bees fell out like a liquid, spilling into the box without incident. The bearish man who'd sold them to me had demonstrated how to tap the box out -- like a ketchup bottle -- which I did to get the last of the stragglers. Because of my fear and the sheer volume of my clothing, I had a slick of sweat dripping down my back. But my terror was unfounded: The bees were entirely docile.

Finally, out of the then mostly empty box, I fished out the queen chamber. A few bees, her attendants, clung to the sides. At the bottom was a stopper plug made of candy. The idea is that the workers will eventually chew through the sugary plug and release the queen. But I wanted to see her. So, against proper bee protocol, I popped the candy inward with the end of my hive tool -- and out she emerged. Her ass was enormous; she looked like some kind of exotic beetle. I held her on the top of the new hive, and she strutted across. Was it just me, or did she actually have the gallant air of royalty? Then she was gone, down into her chambers where she would lay all the eggs to keep the hive going.

Most of us carry around a pack of defining moments. Beginning that colony on a gentle spring day is one of my fondest. I received one sting: on my wedding finger.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Six years later, I've made room for a honey extractor in our living room. And each year during prime honey-extracting season -- late summer -- I invite friends over for a sticky party. In preparation, the night before we place a "bee escape" under the super, the box where the honey is stored. The escape allows the bees trapped in the box to flee through narrow tunnels, but prevents them from returning to the box once they've left.

After 12 hours, the entire box of honey is bee-free, and we take it to the kitchen. The super looks like a bottomless dresser drawer, except inside, instead of socks, 10 frames are crammed side by side, lined up like library books. Inside each one, a Bible-size chunk of sealed honeycomb hangs suspended in the rectangular frame. We spin the extractor and centrifugal force splatters the honey on the stainless steel sides, where it drips down and collects at the bottom. Most "real" beekeepers use an extractor with a motor, heaters and filters. But our guests simply steady the hand-spun extractor (which has a tendency to keel over), and crank it as hard as they can. Then they open the valve at the bottom and let the honey dribble out into quart-size Mason jars.

At these gatherings, everyone gets covered in honey, and we eat as much in one sitting as we can bear. The harvest is different every year, and the flavor of the honey can even vary from frame to frame. If a frame appears darker in color, we'll spin and bottle it separately. One year the honey tasted like licorice -- was it from the wild fennel filling so many abandoned lots? Another frame held eucalyptus honey, which had a medicinal taste to it. A different time, the honey was so sweet, it hurt. But no matter how it tastes, the experience always makes everyone involved feel richer for it -- charmed, elated, sated.

Afterward, when I return the honey super to the hive, the bees are always more apt to sting, and they seem, well, upset. That's why beekeepers call it robbing the hive. But bees don't organize a block watch or call the police; they simply get back to doing what they do, which is to salvage any remaining honey and wax and clean up the now mostly empty frames. I take, they give.

But this spring will be different. My honeybees won't pollinate my fruit trees. There'll be no sticky party this summer. My home will seem empty without their comings and goings. I'll even miss their stings.

In Slovenia, you're supposed to tell a hive when the beekeeper dies, but what are you supposed to do when it's the bees that have left you? Should I console myself and whisper into the hive, "It's spring. I'm expecting you." Lean into its warmth and whine, breathe in the scent of that insect cathedral? Maybe. But the box is as cold as winter now, and there's nothing inside to receive the news.

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