Over My Shoulder

As I enjoyed the blooming of the fruit trees, the clover, the strawberries and the flowers this spring, I was disappointed by the lack of honey bees. I recall that when I was a youngster at home, that this time of the year, honey bees were everywhere. One could not walk among the flowers or fruit trees without hearing a low buzzing of the bees in action. This spring, I have seen perhaps a half a dozen or so.

I recall that it was not unusual to hear or see a swarm or two of bees each day in early spring, as the new swarms set out to find a location. If you have never seen honey bees swarming in the spring, you have missed a real treat. I recall that a great number of people had their own way to capture the swarms and to “hive” them for their use. A large number of homesteads had at least one swarm of bees that they kept for honey, and of course to pollinate the small orchard that nearly everyone had.

I remember that granddad when hearing a swarm would go into the yard and beat on pans or cans to try to get the swarm to settle. Sometimes he would spread a sheet or a table cloth on the ground or in the yard to try to entice the swarm to land. Some of these techniques worked, and the swarm would settle on a near by tree limb, on the side of the house, on the white cloth or in a bush.

Once the swarm had “settle” into one large clump---perhaps as large as a gallon bucket or larger, granddad (or whoever was going to hive them) would place the hive or container below the swarm and either cut the limb and lower them into the hive, or “rake” them into the hive, being sure to get the queen bee into the hive. If the swarm had landed on the sheet, they would be gathered up and placed into a hive.

It was always interesting to watch as the hive owner in the fall would visit their hives, open the tops and harvest some of the honey, being sure to leave enough honey to get the bees through the winter. Sometimes, they would remove “a super” (which was extra sections stacked on top of the base hive) and take it to the smoke house or back porch to harvest and process the honey. Most would use a smoker to calm the bees, and some had a hood and a veil---still others would just be in regular work clothes.

I can still recall how beautiful that comb honey is as it is removed from the hive. It is a golden color, almost clear and has a wonderful unique taste of its own. Most people always thought that Alfalfa and clover made the clearest and best honey. Even today, in “alfalfa country” one can often see bee hives along the edges.

Honey directly from the hive that does not go through the commercial processing is always better. We would always keep some comb honey to eat comb and all, but would slightly heat the most of the honey and squeeze it through some muslin--often in our case a dish towel. Honey was one my Dad’s favorite treats. He always enjoyed comb honey as well as processed honey. I think that I inherited my father’s taste for honey, as I enjoy it very much.
We did not have bee hives, but like everyone else who ever visited the timber always knew where there was a “bee tree” or two. In the fall, we would always make it a policy to “cut a bee tree”. A bee tree was a tree that had some part of it hollowed out that a wild swarm of bees had decided to use as a hive. One could never tell about a bee tree, sometimes it would be a large cavity with much honey, and other times it would be a disappointing small cavity with very little honey. I still visit the timber often, but today do not know where there is one single bee tree.

Bee stings react differently on different people. I remember that with Dad, a bee sting would only cause a small red spot---perhaps no bigger that a chigger bite---for a day or so and other than the small pain of being stung that was all that there was to it. It is different with me. One honey bee sting anywhere on my hand will cause enough swelling over a couple of day to make all of my fingers swollen stiff. I recall several years ago explaining to staff that a bee sting on my cheek bone had caused my eyes to swell nearly shut.---I am still not sure that they believed me---or course they would have not believed that I ran into a door either.

I particularly remember one bee tree that we cut (robbed). It was along the Irish branch on the west bank of what we call the “Arch” fishing hole---a good fishing hole by the way---(called Arch because the land was owned by Archie West). We had stumbled on the tree while fishing, so when it cooled off in the fall, we decided to cut the tree. So on a given night---the bees bothered less after dark, and a lantern and or a bonfire also helps--we trudged back into the timber with the appropriate tools. We had a cross cut saw, an axe, wedges, a mall, a wash tub (you always expected a large harvest), a lantern, and a flash light.

We decided to just cut a part of the tree out, and to leave the tree standing, so we cut part way into the tree at two different heights which we thought would expose the honey, and with a wedge split the chunk out of the trunk. As that part of the trunk was removed, it exposed a large cavity of beautiful comb honey. The year had indeed been a good one. We filled the tub with as much as we could carry out (the tub was not full--as honey is heavy, and wrapped more in Dad’s blue denim jumper.

We had harvested an abundance of honey for our winter supply, it was all a beautiful gold color, and no one had gotten a bee sting---not even Dad who did the major part of working around the bees. Then with a flashlight, I looked up into the hollow part of the tree that had not been opened, and there shining in the light was a beautiful piece of comb honey, about one or two inches square, that I could not resist.

We all know that greed is an evil thing---even when it is getting that last piece of honey from a bee tree. --- Well I reached up into the cavity of the tree, took hold of that last piece of honey and guess what. On the back side of that piece of honey one lone bee was standing guard and he stung me on the ring finger. Needless to say by the time we got home my hand had started to swell, and by morning my fingers were stiff.
Dad always enjoyed telling this story to demonstrate that one should not be too greedy.