Yesterday’s “Future” is today’s “Past”
Readers, I hope you will be patient with me in this piece. I know that more practical topics are being discussed by accomplished writers elsewhere in this issue, but I am — as it were — wandering into the fog of abstract bees and theoretical beekeeping concepts. In this piece, I will have no reflections on winter preparations, no discussions of late-season varroa control, and not a single mention of October management of poor queens. Maybe I should have titled this article “The Rime of the Ancient Apiculturist.”1
Beekeeping and beekeeping schemes have significantly changed in recent decades. But I should quickly write that beekeeping has always been changing and adapting. What I never considered was that I, too, have been evolving and changing. In my lifetime, I have been several different types of a beekeeper. I am absolutely still an avid apiculturist, but I am clearly not the same style of beekeeper I once was.
Speaking the language of the Ancient Apiculturist
Sooner or later, we will all — every one of us — experience some of the challenges of life. In 1914, Robert Frost wrote, “As that I can see no way out but through — Leastways for me.”2 In life and in beekeeping, each of us does what we must to keep looking forward.
During recent years, I have become a caregiver for a very dear family member. To improve my nurturing skills, I attended a meeting of similar caregivers. I was immediately struck by our innate ability to spontaneously speak the same language of caregiving without any preparation or instruction. We didn’t have to explain. So much as possible, we all “just knew” each other’s caregiving challenges. Amongst the group, there was a sense of resoluteness — not hopelessness — just plain resoluteness. “I can see no way out, but through.”
Long-time beekeepers have the same ability to intuitively understand most of beekeeping’s concepts and to have empathy with other staunch keepers. The concepts, ideas, and schemes that we are not familiar with become items that we can review later — or not. Whatever we do, bee life will go on.
Like bloom on pure beeswax, devoted beekeepers develop a resolute placidness that takes many decades and many experiences to fully evolve. As it were, we are matured. We are mellowed. We are aged. We care, but we don’t get upset. Swarms escape. Queens fail. Mite populations grow. Again, we care, but we don’t get torqued. “I will get to it when I can — if I can” is a typical response from a long-time beekeeper.
Caregivers are constantly admonished to “take care of yourself.” I would like to give aging beekeepers that same bit of advice. “Take care of yourself.” To repeat myself, “Swarms escape. Queens fail. Mite populations grow. Again, we care, but we don’t go crazy.” There’s always next season.
A deep hole
Now, I have dug myself into a deep hole. Are resolute beekeepers just a sloppy and neglectful bunch? Possibly. Is that horrible? Not always. Sometimes, it’s the best a keeper can do with the physical resources at hand. One of the great gifts of bees to keepers is that bees are not totally dependent on the beekeeper. Were it not for mites (that’s our fault that bees must deal with them), our bees would not really need us.
I must say that unrestrained bee pests and diseases are a burden to other beekeepers still making their way in earlier stages of beekeeping. I can agree with pontification and thoughtfulness, but at the end of the day, the basics of bee colony hygiene must be acknowledged and implemented by all beekeepers. While I recognize a degree of relaxation, tranquil beekeepers must not negatively affect their neighboring beekeeper kith …
