The Smell of Possibility
About three weeks ago, I peeked into the hive to see if anything was happening in the super. I found some bees milling about, but the frames were empty. Being as it was heading towards mid August, I figured getting any honey for us to feast on this season just wasn't going to happen. I was happy to see the frames in the deep covered, with lots of bee activity. This gives me hope that the bees will be comfortable through the winter, but just to be sure, I signed up for another class, one that will go into how to help the bees make it through a tough winter. That class is this upcoming Sunday, and I'm getting excited about attending and learning more.
This evening, I went back to the hive to clean out the tall grass that has grown up around it. Though the grass is pretty and provides nice cover, it does block my viewing enjoyment. There's just something soothing about watching the bees work, and I couldn't watch from the back deck because of the grass. So I began pulling the grass out. Slowly. Carefully. Watching the bees ignore me. Then I got my first whiff. At first I thought it was the oregano plant that has been in that part of the garden for the last three or four years. It nestled against the rosemary bush that had grown tall and wide and filled the air with its wonderful piney scent until this year. Last winter was so cold and snowy for so long that the rosemary didn't have a chance. With great sadness, I had to pull it out, leaving the oregano plant by itself. But what I was smelling definitely wasn't oregano.
This smell was slightly sweet.
Slightly musky.
Slightly spicy.
Slightly . . . hmmmm, what exactly was that smell?
I couldn't put my finger on just one element of the scent that continued to tease me.
Then I lifted the lid off the hive. I had to know if any honey was in the works in the super. Once the outer cover was off, I pried the inner cover off and set it to the side. When I leaned over to look into the hive, a warmth wafted up from the depths, lifting the scent I had noticed earlier to greet me. I'd just gotten my first dose of the beehive smell. I wanted to stand there and simply inhale, and I did for a moment. I then checked the frames. No honey.
The beehive smell was enough. It, much like watching the bees come and go, offered something akin to reassurance. That even though a life, even if only a rosemary bush, might sadly come to an end, I still have vivid memories of its fullness and its mouth-watering scent that make me happy when I think about it. That even though summer is approaching its end, I still have pictures of the landscapes, the wildlife, and the flowers that brought me so much joy as I pedaled alone along country roads. That even though there's no honey in the super, the possibility . . . yeah, the possibility . . . of having a bounty next summer is great.
This evening, I went back to the hive to clean out the tall grass that has grown up around it. Though the grass is pretty and provides nice cover, it does block my viewing enjoyment. There's just something soothing about watching the bees work, and I couldn't watch from the back deck because of the grass. So I began pulling the grass out. Slowly. Carefully. Watching the bees ignore me. Then I got my first whiff. At first I thought it was the oregano plant that has been in that part of the garden for the last three or four years. It nestled against the rosemary bush that had grown tall and wide and filled the air with its wonderful piney scent until this year. Last winter was so cold and snowy for so long that the rosemary didn't have a chance. With great sadness, I had to pull it out, leaving the oregano plant by itself. But what I was smelling definitely wasn't oregano.
This smell was slightly sweet.
Slightly musky.
Slightly spicy.
Slightly . . . hmmmm, what exactly was that smell?
I couldn't put my finger on just one element of the scent that continued to tease me.
Then I lifted the lid off the hive. I had to know if any honey was in the works in the super. Once the outer cover was off, I pried the inner cover off and set it to the side. When I leaned over to look into the hive, a warmth wafted up from the depths, lifting the scent I had noticed earlier to greet me. I'd just gotten my first dose of the beehive smell. I wanted to stand there and simply inhale, and I did for a moment. I then checked the frames. No honey.
The beehive smell was enough. It, much like watching the bees come and go, offered something akin to reassurance. That even though a life, even if only a rosemary bush, might sadly come to an end, I still have vivid memories of its fullness and its mouth-watering scent that make me happy when I think about it. That even though summer is approaching its end, I still have pictures of the landscapes, the wildlife, and the flowers that brought me so much joy as I pedaled alone along country roads. That even though there's no honey in the super, the possibility . . . yeah, the possibility . . . of having a bounty next summer is great.
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