Boomer Hive

Goodbye, boomer. You were awesome.
Thanks, Meghan, for adopting them.

Day 132: Boomer Hive
I've gotten rid of my boomer hive, and the little nuc I made to relieve crowding and prevent a swarm. Of all the things I've gotten rid of, this is the hardest. I love my bees and wouldn't choose to give them up. But I've said goodbye to the girls.

From a distance.

Even the nicest hive stings sometimes. This boomer hive has so many bees, I couldn't help but kill one or two each time I worked it, which sends off an alarm pheromone, which causes them to ping (fly into the veil) and sting. And each time I've been stung, the reaction has been more intense.

I already had a brood chamber (a boxful of larvae and eggs along with some pollen and nectar) and four supers of pure capped honey, 400 pounds of bees, and it was only mid-July. That's why I decided to turn my boomer hive into two hives, which I thought would lighten the weight on the stand and give me a better chance of having at least one hive survive the winter. The bees were a bit disturbed by my reorganization of their home. One of the girls stung my thumb...through the glove.

Ouch! And it got even worse than this!

The sting was surprisingly painful and the swelling set in immediately. I've always thought that a severe allergy caused instant death, so I was uncomfortable, but unworried. I am so fortunate to have more than one kind and passionate bee mentors. Richard Mendel is one of these. When I called him to ask for advice on the "dirty split" (creating a second queen-less hive), he dropped everything and came right over. When he saw my hand, he delicately suggested that such a reaction is not the norm among beekeepers. "You might want to have a doctor take a look at that."

Well, the doctor took one look, gave me an Epipen prescription and suggested I take up another hobby. She said my arm was swollen past the elbow, my airways were restricted, and I might not be so lucky the next time.

I didn't feel lucky in that moment, itchy, uncomfortable and facing the prospect of saying goodbye to the girls. Some of my fellow beekeepers talked about visiting an allergist to diminish the reaction, or wearing the beekeeper equivalent of a spacesuit.

There are many things I've loved about beekeeping. I love how it heightens my awareness of the weather, the seasons, what's in bloom. It makes me look at plants and flowers in new ways, with greater awareness of the creatures in and around them. I've loved learning about the science of bees, beginning to master this great body of knowledge, having responsibility for these foreign creatures. I've loved crouching by the hive for long stretches, watching their dance, watching their light and lively descent, their return laden with nectar and pollen. Livestock, yet alien and wild.

I've loved the discipline of bringing my mind and body to a place of peace and calm from which to work the bees. I can't bring fear to the beehive; the bees will know and react. My movements are slow and deliberate. My breathing is even. I can feel my heartbeat, slow and steady. Fearing stings - fearing death - would bring the spiritual practice of beekeeping to a different level, one I'm not ready for.

And wearing the spacesuit to separate myself from the outdoors: no way. It just doesn't sound like fun any more.