Impatient Spring
Bee anxieties and Lenten musings
Here in the Canadian capital region it’s been a week of unseasonably warm weather following hard on the heels of a cold spell. I worry about what this means for the bees. I imagine they’ve woken up, taken some short exploratory flights and consumed some of their scarce resources. As a beekeeper, I no longer enjoy early false springs. I’m constantly in fear that a spell of warm weather will herald the demise of one of my hives - no matter how warmly they’ve been tucked up for their long nap.
I haven’t driven out to the friend’s property where they currently reside since shortly after Christmas. In part because I’m putting off the task of informing her that they’ll be moving to my grandparents’ place come spring. I know they’ve brought joy to the many visitors to her property, and there’s nothing quite like being able to offer someone honey from the most local of flora. However, I can’t afford the investment of time that keeping them out in Beckwith would require as the work of reseeding and haying going on a 50 minute drive away at my grandparents’ continues. So, come spring proper, the hives will be loaded into the back of a truck and driven across country to their new location.
When my grandparents first bought their farm, in 2002 or 2003, there were beehives set in a small grove of trees between the creek and the cattle pens. I have hazy memories of standing well back with my siblings and cousins, watching the beekeeper lift the frames heavy with honey from the hives. I don’t remember when the hives were moved or what happened to the beekeeper but the bees had left within a few years. My grandmother would like to see hives in that grove again, however, since those early years of the 2000s the trees have grown on apace and the grove is no longer a suitable place for bees. The willows and pines have pushed upwards towards the sun and the darkness sits heavily beneath their boughs.
Honeybees need the sun. They like to be woken up in the morning by sunlight on the hive, feeling its warming rays during the first few hours of the day. They also need protection from the height of the day’s heat. Choosing a location invariably involves consulting a chart of the sun’s path for your particular area before building a stable footing for the hives and perhaps installing an electric fence to ward off the ever-hungry black bear.
Moving the hives has also raised a whole series of questions about the name of the business. Currently, I operate under the moniker Beckwith Bees after the area the apiary is located in. If I’m no longer in Beckwith I wonder whether the name should change as well? If you have suggestions please feel free to drop them in the comments.
This brief false spring has induced a hope for the real thing, however, if the weather app is to be believed we have another deep freeze coming over the next few weeks. A return to hibernation and waiting for those first shoots to break through the soil. Just as we have weeks of winter ahead of us so too do we have weeks of Lent yet to get through. A time of waiting intensified by the small sacrifices we make in the hopes of drawing closer to the Mystery.
Last Friday I drove out of the city to a small parish on the banks of the Ottawa river. My brother, a family friend, and I had chosen to spend this first weekend of lent in retreat and we had been graciously lent an empty rectory overlooking the water in a small farming hamlet. That first evening, after the others had gone off to bed, I slipped out of doors into the chill of the night. The sky was clear with thin skeins of cloud draped across it’s lower half; a scarf for the glittering stars. The crunch of snow underfoot was punctuated by the yips and howls of far off coyotes. It felt like no other living thing besides myself and them were abroad.
The church was steps away from the rectory and, having the use of a masterkey, we structured our day around the saying of the hours in its bright confines. Built in 1851 it had avoided the destruction of the 60s and 70s and retained the original altar pieces and cupolas. We prayed Vespers as the daylight faded that Saturday evening and, by benediction, the church was lit only by the altar candles. In that long silence it felt as if the world had shifted slightly and that for which we wait was not now far off.
I wish you all a blessed Lenten season as we journey towards the showing forth of fresh, new growth that comes with Easter.
